


Important Dates

by AtoTheBean



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Boffins - Freeform, Christmas Eve, Community: MI6 Cafe | mi6_cafe, Costumes, Fake Dating, Felix is originally from New Orleans, Halloween, Holidays, M/M, New Year's Eve, No Rest For The Wicked - Freeform, Paris (City), Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-SPECTRE, Q volunteers, Slow Burn, Thanksgiving, Ugly Holiday Sweaters, Valentine's Day, a special sort of mission, bagpipes, burns night, for culinary reasons, haggis, so much food, won't be easy tho
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:28:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27296446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtoTheBean/pseuds/AtoTheBean
Summary: After a brief attempt at retirement, James is back at MI6 and working hard to rebuild working relationships with his colleagues and friends. And he's making great strides.Only Q continues to hold him at arm's length, maintaining a stubborn professionalism in their interactions that James remains unable to pierce.But James doesn't want Q at arm's length, and so he takes a risk. But even a spy's instincts can run amok, and now James wonders just how long he'll be reaping what he's sown, and how many holidays it will take to win Q over.
Relationships: James Bond & Q, James Bond/Q
Comments: 183
Kudos: 213
Collections: MI6 Cafe Collections





	1. Halloween

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween! This is my MI6 Cafe sp00qy offering for this year, except it's not actually that spooky (or occult) and it is not limited to one holiday. In fact, you may want to subscribe to this one, because my plan is for the chapters to come out on actual holidays over the course of the year. Chapter 1, of course, is Halloween. The next chapter is planned for American Thanksgiving, and so on. So when I tag it slow burn... well...
> 
> Anyway, MANY thanks to Anyawen for betaing... seriously she practically co-authored a few bits there... and to Lin for sprinting and brainstorming... and the title.

“Left,” Q says into the headset, still typing away at his station. “There are two doors down this hall. Pass the first on the right, and just before the second, there will be a steel door at waist height for a chute.”

“I’m not taking the door?” 004 confirms.

“Negative. There are hostiles in the stairwell. Make sure the chute door closes behind you and try not to make more noise than nec—”

Bond winces at the series of knocks, curses, and bruising thumps coming through the comms. Glancing across the room, he sees M’s expression flinch as well. He and Ms. Moneypenny whisper amongst themselves to the right of Q’s station. Tanner stands beside R’s station as she supports Q by overseeing the minions. They are loading the array of monitors in front of Q with camera feeds, building blueprints, and Paris police reports… everything he might need at his fingertips. And Q seems to integrate all that information on the fly as he leads Jonathon through a mission that’s gone abruptly and _spectacularly_ tits up. It was meant to be a milk run.

Which is why the tension in the room is so palpable, while simultaneously incongruous with the Halloween decorations and costumes on display in Q Branch. This shit show interrupted the branch Halloween party, such as it was. The Minions had gone all out on decorations, and had been showing off various themed inventions... when 004 suddenly reported that Fantôme and his entourage had arrived early, and the hotel that served as his compound had gone from nearly empty to abruptly populated by a number of armed and angry guards. And he was in desperate need of an exit.

“Report 004!” Q demands when the thuds have ended. Q’s costume is sedate: a generic IT badge and a sweatshirt reading “Have you tried turning it off and back on again?” His Minions are much more elaborately dressed.

“Miraculously, I’m still alive,” comes the groan. “I’ve landed in a bin of laundry.”

“Excellent,” Q says, studying the plans for the building again. “And the data?”

“I still have it,” 004 says, grunting as sounds of him struggling out of the bin come across the comms. “What floor am I on?”

“Basement level. The hostiles appear to have noticed your escape from the fourth floor. Let’s make you scarce, shall we? Across the room from the chutes, take the door on the left. You’re going to have to hotwire a vehicle from the employee garage; if I try to take you back to your own car, we’ll run into the guards again.”

They hear the smash of glass and a moment later the roar of an engine.

“Guards approaching,” Q warns over the screeching tires.

“I’m more worried about the gate,” 004 comments as he approaches the exit to the garage. Q looks up at the garage video feed and starts to look for the correct system to hack when the gate starts to open.

“Thanks, Q,” 004 shouts.

“That was actually… Sarafina,” Q says as he looks over his shoulder to discover which Minion was two steps ahead this time. “As soon as he’s through, lower it and lock it down.”

“Got it, boss,” she answers.

“Ta, Sarafina,” 004 corrects. “And I’m out. No sign of pursuit yet.”

“Get his license plate so we can issue a ‘No Stop’ flag in the system,” Q calls to the room at large, nodding as he hears the “on it!” from behind him. “004, we’ve locked down all the garage exits, which should slow them down long enough to get you clear of the immediate vicinity. Paris traffic is relatively light, so I’m going to suggest you avoid the airport and use the tunnel to get back to England. Did you leave anything in your car that can be traced to you?”

“No, but my bag is still behind the counter at the hotel.”

“We’ll send someone over to retrieve it now,” Q says, nodding to R. He scans the monitors for any sign Jonathon is being followed. “You look clear. I’m handing you back to Jason to monitor your progress. We’ll erase any evidence we find of you in their systems. Unless… do you need to go to the embassy for medical attention?”

“I’m just a bit bruised,” 004 says. “I’ll report to Medical when I get to London.”

Q shoots a wry look toward Bond as if to say, “See? My other agents all report to Medical.”

James smirks and enjoys it. It’s been a rough transition back from his “retirement”. He’d only been gone a few months, but they’d been particularly challenging ones for those he'd left to clean up the mess of Blofeld and Nine Eyes, and his colleagues at -6 did not offer him a warm greeting upon his return. He’s been working hard over the last nine months to earn his place in the agency and regain his warm interactions with his colleagues and… well, he hopes they are his friends.

And he’s made great strides.

He and Tanner go to the pub every week or so. He and M aren’t exactly friends, but they have a mutual respect, and M seems to truly appreciate his instincts. He and Eve have lunch at least once a week if he’s in town… he’s sure of her friendship. They always _did_ understand each other, and though their banter is nearly constant, it’s strictly platonic. She’s gone so far as to introduce him to the man she’s started dating… someone down in Medical, of all things…

Only Q has held him at arm’s length, maintaining a stubborn professionalism in their interactions that Bond has been unable to pierce. And it’s not that Q has lost his warmth. Bond can see it still reflected in his interactions with others. Q and Eve have developed a close relationship while he’s been gone. He’s not sure if they were always close, or if it developed as they cleaned up the aftermath of Nine Eyes together, but he has determined that she frequently comes down at the end of the day and reminds Q to go home… sometimes marching him across the street to the pub first so Q will actually unwind. She confided in James once that she worries that Q will burn himself out and walk off as James had, and they just couldn’t manage without him…

His warmth is most obvious in the Branch, though. Q has developed a rapport with his Minions. They adore him. He's a demanding boss, but indulgent as well, as evidenced by the Halloween decorations and festivities. He manages to maintain a professional work environment while encouraging a playfulness that makes the Minions happy to be there, and willing to abandon the party when the emergency hits, staying late to be sure the crisis is dealt with. They are all smiles now that 004 is on his way home. M congratulates Q and thanks the Branch, promising sweets on Monday to make up for the ruined party.

James watches on, noting the smiles Q offers his Branch, the fond handshake he accepts from M, and the way that through it all, Q is still monitoring 004 and making sure he knows who will remain to monitor the mission, even as the majority of his team starts to pack up to go home, late as it is on a Friday. Q scans the room, transferring control of his station to the beta team and generally being a competent leader. His gaze skips right over Bond as he takes in the state of the Branch.

James misses Q. He misses the banter and the long-suffering sighs and the flashing eyes, and his wit… but the thing he misses the most is Q’s _attention_.

Where in the past it always felt like Q’s eyes were on him, now they feel noticeably absent. Where he could always count on a ‘yes’, now he’s faced with a constant ‘no’ unless the request is clearly for a mission and protocol has been followed to a tee.

And Bond has played along. He’s been respectful and followed the rules and brought back the man’s tech and stopped flirting when it clearly wasn’t reciprocated. He’s been hoping for some warming of relations… some offer to go for drinks after work or assist with testing a prototype or even one of the smiles Q bestows on everyone else, but he still seems to be stuck in a cold war he doesn’t quite recall starting.

“You up for a pint?” Eve asks as she approaches. “M is thinking since the party got ruined, perhaps we could head over to The Thistle for a bit.”

James looks at his watch. “It might be busy,” he says. It’s well past happy hour. The office types will have moved on and actual revelers out on the Friday before Halloween would have claimed most of the tables.

Eve shrugs, not denying the truth of his assessment. “Q?” she calls. “Are you up for a nightcap? I’m going to call The Thistle and see if they’ll hold us a table.”

Q offers them a look James can’t quite interpret… the man is torn, but whether the implication that Bond will be there is tipping him toward coming or against it, James can’t be sure. Then he looks at the clock on the wall and shakes his head.

“I can’t, Moneypants. I have plans.”

“You are the worst liar,” Eve complains.

“If we’d left at six, I would have been able to,” Q offers, “but it’s well past nine now.”

Eve sighs and crosses her arms as Q retreats to his office. Bond can see him through the glass, collecting his things.

“You’re coming out, aren’t you?” she asks James.

He watches Q pack up a backpack. “I think I’ll pass, Ms. Moneypenny. I only arrived from Budapest this evening — I was dropping off my kit when the party abruptly changed tone — I’m not sure I’m up for the chaos of the holiday and the full moon.”

“It’s not Halloween for another three hours,” Eve counters.

James smiles at her. “Thank you for the invitation, Eve. Enjoy your evening, and watch out for spooks.”

She rolls her eyes but offers him a smile as she returns to M and Tanner.

He slips out of the room, collects his coat and keys, and is standing outside in the misty darkness of Vauxhall five minutes later, pondering his options. When Q emerges from the building, Bond’s choice is made.

He tails Q to the tube station, following him from a distance as he makes his way underground and boards the train. Bond enters the car behind Q’s, dodging the usual commuters, some of whom, like Q, have bits of costumes peeking out from beneath their coats. It’s crowded, and he has to jockey a bit to keep Q in view. He follows Q off the train a few stops later, rather distressed at how little attention the head boffin is giving his surroundings. Q’s neighborhood is full of shops and pubs, busy enough that James doesn’t attract attention as he follows a block behind, staying in the shadows in case Q looks back.

He’s not sure what he’s doing, to be honest. He just… he needs a break. A lead. His usual methods — and even the more atypical efforts of bringing back the tech — seem to be getting him nowhere with Q. And though he’s not exactly sure what he hopes for, stuck at “nowhere” is definitely not it. If Q has plans — if he’s heading to a restaurant or theater — perhaps Bond will glean something about the man’s taste that he can use to turn conversations away from mundane mission-related discourse. Maybe it will give him an _in_.

He’s disappointed when Q enters a brick building renovated as lofts. And he feels a bit like a stalker as he realizes that he’s followed Q all the way home. Perhaps he doesn’t have plans after all, and just needed a way to beg off Eve’s offer without hurting her feelings. Or, perhaps he’s getting cleaned up before going out…

Bond enters the restaurant across the street where he has a view of Q’s building. He’s hungry anyway, he may as well get some food before heading home. The Burmese restaurant is tiny and mostly takeout, but it smells wonderful, and there are a few seats at the bar in the window affording a view of the street. It’s surprisingly tasty, so much so that he’s pocketing the paper “to go” menu that comes with his bill, and is almost distracted enough to not notice when Q emerges from the building again at 11.

He barely makes it out in time to flag down a cab and have it follow Q’s, in what has to be the most obvious tail Bond has ever participated in. They stop a mere three miles away, amidst revelers on the street dressed in costumes and clearly a drink or two in. He’s surrounded by French maids and zombie butlers, people in strange glasses and wigs and garish makeup. It feels vaguely like Mardi Gras. Q enters the lobby, and James realizes he’ll need to buy a ticket first, and _that’s_ when he realizes where he is.

He’s woefully underdressed, but finds a kiosk in the lobby where he can purchase accessories: lime green sunglasses, a pink boa, and a gold glitter bowler hat. He dons them and turns to the coat check line just in time to see Q peel off his long wool coat to reveal a leather corset, stockings, and strikingly high heels. James is gobsmacked, and barely has the presence of mind to duck behind someone as Q turns in his direction, watching as Q blows a kiss to someone behind James.

Q’s eyelids are painted blue, his lips are blood-red, his hair is _utterly_ wild, and somehow his cheekbones are more pronounced than ever. Q struts over to a costumed couple who are _clearly_ excited to see him and offers one-armed hugs and air kisses. They buy snacks and drinks — very vile looking caramel concoction — and they all toss their boas over their shoulders and stride into the theater. Bond buys a gin and tonic in a tiny plastic cup with a lid and straw — much to his horror — and enters the darkened theater.

It was built in the 1880s and boasts a beautiful ceiling, ornate sconces, and carved beams that act as elegant counterpoints to the spinning disco balls, tinsel streamers, and dots of colored lights dancing across the velvet drapes. The audience is boisterous, their dress as loud as their laughter. Bond finds his seat about halfway up the aisle and sips his gin as he tries to locate Q. James finally sees him with his friends in the second row. And at the stroke of 12, the lights dim further and the film begins.

He’s seen it once, ages ago, but clearly he was in the wrong company, because he found it campy and a bit boring. But surrounded by these people, who are singing along with the theme song before the show has even properly started, he feels intrigued. He sits back in his chair, sips his gin and tonic through a straw, and watches the spectacle. He’s only slightly surprised as audience members start throwing rice at the screen during the wedding and reciting lines with the characters: _Hey Janet?_ and _Yes Brad?_ expressed in exaggerated, cloying, comical voices.

Bond had forgotten about the engagement song, but of course, things don’t get really good until Brad and Janet get to the mansion. When the chorus starts on “Let’s do the Time Warp Again” the entire audience stands. James misses the first cue and is collided with by his neighbor at the first “jump to the left,” but quickly catches on. And he can see, now, the need for the lid and straw on his drink. He is not, perhaps, as coordinated as the other Transylvanians, but he doesn’t get stepped on again.

But that’s not the highlight. No, the _highlight_ is when Frank-N-Furter comes on the screen, and all the audience members dressed as the character surge up to the stage. They sing the lines of _Sweet Transvestite_ and strut their stuff. And they are _working_ it, but none more than Q. He is the exact opposite of the buttoned-up, cardigan-wearing, bespectacled boffin Bond usually encounters at work. There’s a freedom in his movements James has never seen. A confidence not born of intellect or capability, but something more sexual and animalistic. James can barely believe it, and can’t help but snap a picture with his phone as he hoots and hollers with the rest of the audience.

He’d forgotten a lot of details about the film, and it hasn’t all aged well — certainly, the culture has moved beyond the stereotypes of “evil” promiscuous bisexuals tempting innocents — but Bond can’t deny the charm of the film when surrounded by so many enthusiastic viewers. It pushed boundaries when it was originally released and now it’s practically nostalgic, but that spark of celebration and freedom somehow remains. And despite the fact that the end is surreal and a bit weird, he feels cheered as the lights come up and the audience explodes with applause.

He hangs back, letting the front rows filter out before joining the throng leaving the theater. He sees Q donning his coat as he enters the lobby and waits for Q to pass to the main exit before moving into the room. He’s out the door with the crowd and finds Q walking slowly and laughing with someone about a half-block away. They slow and face each other, and James turns quickly away in case Q turns in his direction. He hazards a look back a few moments later to find Q is gone, and a car is pulling away.

No, Q is still walking away a bit further on. James follows, not actually knowing why. Surely, Q is heading home now. And James has gotten the insight he was after. He doesn’t actually want to meet the boffin like this...

As he walks on the costumed theater-goers become diluted amongst the other more, sedately dressed pub crawlers. He turns a corner… and sees no sign of Q. He scans both sides of the street, noting the concentration of cabs and realizing he’s in front of a hotel. Q must have come this way to find a cab more easily.

He decides it’s a good idea. He queues up for the remaining cabs, and within five minutes is heading to the west side of town, removing his hat and glasses, and uncoiling his pink feather boa. The lights of London dance past his window, but he’s only half seeing them. His mind lingers on the evening: the outrageous costumes, the joyous cacophony. He’s looking forward to trying again to chip away at Q’s exterior with this new bit of information. Not that he’ll admit to anything. But if he drops a hint of enjoying musicals or retro films… it might give him an in. And he now knows he wants it more than ever. He’s been wanting to get back into Q’s good graces since his return, but now…

He always suspected that his Quartermaster was lean and strong under those cardigans and pleated trousers, but he’d never imagined the lithe, defined muscles in his legs and shoulders. Never suspected that his arse would be quite so… striking.

And he has no business thinking of Q this way. For all he knows, Q is dating one of those people he met up with… though that didn’t seem to be the case. And despite the role that Q was playing tonight, Bond has no actual idea about his sexuality. But now he’s curious. He wants the banter between them back because it makes the job more enjoyable and Q is fun to tease, but he’s never _truly_ thought of his Quartermaster as a sexual being until tonight.

But he is now. And it’s intriguing. He looks at the picture he snapped. It’s grainy and dark, but still makes him smile and chuckle softly. Honestly, tonight has been the most fun he’s had in a while. He’s been licking his wounds and trying to get his old life back, but tonight feels like something new. Or at least a glimpse of something new. And it’s nice.

His flat feels cold and lifeless after the bright colors of the theater. He hangs the pink feather boa over a floor lamp as he pours himself a scotch and pads off to prepare for bed.

He wakes late the next morning, still feeling warm and pleased, and rolls over to look at the picture on his phone again. But it’s gone, and in its place is a picture of a post-it with a familiar tidy scrawl:

James stares at it for a long moment, ice filling his gut.

_Fuck._

It’s going to be a long, cold November.


	2. American Thanksgiving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are at another holiday. I, like Felix, have been cooking all the things and thinking about what I'm grateful for. And there's a lot, actually, despite 2020 being all... 2020. 
> 
> I'm very thankful to have @anyawen as a beta (and friend) on this fic.  
> I'm grateful to the readers who commented on the last chapter  
> And I'm grateful to the whole 00q fandom for enabling me these last few years. I hope you have a pleasant and peaceful day, whether you celebrate this particular holiday or not. Thanks so much for coming along with me, yet again.

Bond emerges from the steaming bathroom with his towel still draped over his shoulders, his jeans clinging to his damp skin. It’s good to finally feel warm again. Germany in November is worse than London, and he and Felix have had hard duty on this joint mission. It makes him appreciate the relative comfort he feels now as he pads into the sitting room of the suite they’re sharing — top floor of a small but luxurious hotel with a view of the old city of Bonn. A large balcony off the sliding door is heated and covered, and he can see Felix already sitting at the outdoor table, despite the intermittent rain, his phone propped up on the table in speaker mode.

James pours himself a finger of scotch from the bar and takes a sip as he dries his hair. It’s a comfortable room. Much better than the hellholes they’ve frequented on their three-week tour across the dodgy bits of Prague, Nuremberg, and Frankfurt chasing a network of alt-right terror cells hacking social media and trafficking weapons. They’ve sent Q and his CIA-counterpart enough data to analyze for the next month, _and_ foiled a plot to undermine a diplomatic conference on carbon reductions. They deserve a bit of luxury.

Bond heads back to his room, tosses his towel in the hamper, and dons a cashmere jumper before joining Felix on the deck. Felix has showered and changed, too, and looks to be at least a drink in, judging from his relaxed demeanor and infectious smile. He’s actually laughing as James joins him, which is confusing. James assumed Felix was checking in with bosses in Washington. But it’s Q’s voice coming through the speaker.

“Go!” Q laughs. “That can’t be right.”

“You can’t tell me you don’t have any strange foods. I’ve _been_ to England before, you know. Haggis?”

“That’s Scottish.”

“Black Pudding?”

“Yes, all right. Your point is made.”

“Anyway, Oyster and Cornbread dressing is delicious,” Felix continues, nodding to James as he sits.

“If you say so. I suppose I’m willing to take a chance on your gran’s recipes. And I imagine we _must_ have pumpkin pie, as well.”

“Pumpkins don’t grow worth shit in Louisiana. It’s Sweet Potato Pie… though I’m not sure I can get those in Britain.”

“As opposed to the Andouille sausage for the dressing?” Q protests.

“I have a lead,” Felix boasts, leaning back in his chair and sipping his scotch. “Though I think I’m more inclined to make Derby Pie.”

“And what, pray tell, is that? I’m not going to have to eat a hat, am I?”

“It’s a surprise. But it’ll be Mimi’s recipe as well.”

“Your gran?” Q confirms.

“Great-grandmother,” Felix corrects. “And you’re going to love it. Just the thing for a sweet-tooth like you. Did you secure the flat? It had better have a large oven… I don’t think you have deep fryers here I can use on the turkey.”

“Heathen. You know, I looked into trying to get you back for the holiday, but the connections are terrible. The best I can do is get you in late Wednesday.”

“And then I wouldn’t have time to prepare. Whereas if I just stay in the Kensington flat for a week, I can update your M on the latest at Langley _and_ treat you.”

“Hmmm. Yes, I’ve secured it. And Tanner and Moneypenny have both agreed. M is checking.”

“You’ll join us too, won’t you, Brother?” Felix asks of James.

Bond freezes, his drink halfway to his mouth. “I wouldn’t want to intrude,” he offers.

“Nonsense. It’s not Thanksgiving without _all_ the family there. Even the destructive, black sheep.”

Bond huffs a laugh and takes a sip of his drink to stall. Felix is looking at him very earnestly, but he can’t help but notice the silence on the phone.

“There should be plenty of food,” Felix offers. “And I know you understand enough about football to explain it to the others. Not soccer, mind you. _Real_ football.”

“Which you play with your hands,” Q comments, breaking his silence, though his voice doesn’t quite have the mirth it held before he realized James was part of the conversation.

This is a bad idea. Q’s barely spoken to him since Halloween, and he absolutely should not intrude on what is clearly a friendly visit. Even if he’s known Felix longer than Q has. Even if Felix calls him _Brother_. He’s about to refuse… make up a former engagement, when Q’s voice comes over the speaker…

“If Bond is joining as well, we’ll need another side dish, I think.”

“Carrot souffle,” Felix sighs rapturously. “I’ll add the ingredients to the list.”

Which is how James comes to find himself nervously approaching MI6’s Kennsington flat at noon the following Thursday. He’s grounded anyway, as Felix reminds him, he may as well chop vegetables. Which is fine. He honestly doesn’t have anywhere better to be, now that he’s safely on British soil and his tech is returned (yes, all of it) and his reports are in. And he truly does enjoy Felix’s company.

He only feels slightly betrayed when Q is the one to answer the door.

“He’s dealing with a bit of an emergency,” Q explains awkwardly, ushering Bond in. He’s holding a half-glass of white wine and seems agitated.

“Do we need to call fire and rescue services?” James asks, noting the faint smell of smoke.

“I think we’re safe enough. A bit of the smoked sausage got… well, smokier than intended.”

“Oh dear,” Bond says, entering the kitchen. “Felix?”

“Everything’s under control,” Felix insists.

“‘Under control’ in the American vernacular, is it?” Bond asks, setting his bags on the table and taking stock of the situation in the kitchen.

Felix turns down the heat on the burner, shaking his head. “You Brits are no help at all.”

“Oi, I helped!” Q protests.

“You helped until it got hard.”

“I opened a window,” Q offers, hiding his grin behind his wine glass.

Felix rolls his eyes but is fighting a grin as well. “James, did you know this welp can’t cook worth shit… doesn’t even know how to shuck oysters?”

Bond glances at Q to see how this “insult” is affecting him. Judging from the fact that his shoulders are shaking with laughter hard enough that he’s having trouble sipping his wine, Q’s not overly distressed.

“Now that you mention it, I think I’ve only seen Q eat from takeaway containers. In his defense, though, that’s always at work, so I wouldn’t really expect otherwise. Did you try teaching him, Felix? Q has talented fingers.”

Bond realizes what he’s said only after two sets of wide eyes are fixed on him.

“Does he now?” Felix asks. “Something you’d like to share with the class, James?”

He can feel Q’s stillness beside him as his mind is abruptly and _unhelpfully_ filled with images from Halloween — Q strutting across the stage in heels and stockings. James stammers uncharacteristically, “I only meant Q has many talents.” Oh dear. “He’s an excellent inventor and programmer. Dextrous.” Felix raises an eyebrow and James is _really_ not helping himself. Q looks more and more worried as James continues. “It’s little wonder he hasn’t bothered to learn yet, but I’m sure Q would be quite capable of shucking oysters, given proper tools and instruction. Though considering the fact you two are already well into a bottle of wine, perhaps I should handle the knife.”

Q relaxes _slightly_ beside him. There’s still a tension James wishes weren’t there. Not to mention, he feels heat in his cheeks, not merely for the fumble, but because he can’t stop remembering just exactly how Q’s arse looked in the tiny black knickers… something James has had on his mind entirely too much the last few weeks. He hazards a look at Q. The boffin no longer looks braced for being outed or teased, but he still doesn't look happy.

“Give me the oysters,” James finally says, hoping to head off any wild deductions as Felix looks back and forth at him and Q. “Do you have a proper knife?”

“Brother, you wound me,” Felix says. “They’re in the sink on ice. You can put the meat in that dish so I can coat them for frying.”

James doesn’t quite meet Q’s eyes as he asks, “Would you like to learn? There’s a trick to it, but it’s not hard once you know.”

Q hesitates. Bond wonders whether his curiosity or lingering ire will win out. “I’m not sure there’s room for all of us in that kitchen,” Q ventures.

“I’m not sure there’s room for more than Felix and his smoke. I’ll bring them to the table on a tray.”

Things are a bit easier after that. With two of them working at the table, they get the oysters shucked and celery chopped and cornbread crumbled as Felix fries things up with the Spanish chorizo he’s using in place of the traditional Andouille sausage — his lead didn’t pay off, apparently. Within about 20 minutes, the “dressing” is in a baking dish, and Felix is looking noticeably more relaxed and deciding what needs preparing next.

“The turkey is about two hours out, and then will need to rest,” he says, taking a sip of wine and looking across the detritus of pots and pans across the kitchen. “I made the pies yesterday. The dressing goes in in about 20 minutes. The sweet potatoes and potatoes au gratin just need to go back in the oven to warm up after the turkey is out.”

“Are there any actual vegetables in this meal, Felix?” James asks.

“Green beans!” Felix announces, moving to the refrigerator. “And actually, the carrot souffle needs making first, if I can clear a spot to work in.”

“Why don’t I wash up a bit,” James offers. “Clean as we go.”

“That’d be helpful,” Felix admits. “Mind grating some carrots, Q?”

The next hour passes enjoyably. It’s been a long time since James has helped cook a large meal like this. Small meals for two as part of a seduction, yes, but this feels quite different. As James predicted, Q is curious and a fast learner, and good with the multitasking necessary for getting so many dishes ready at the same time.

By the time five o’clock rolls around, the table is set, the kitchen is clean, the flat smells delicious, and no one would ever guess at the mess that led up to it. Everyone comes straight from work, since this particular Thursday isn’t a holiday for anyone in the UK. Eve arrives first, bringing flowers and a bottle of wine, and extolling Felix’s generosity. Tanner brings his wife, arriving about 20 minutes later, explaining that she’s read in and has clearance such that none of them need to worry about what gets discussed, even after the wine gets flowing. Felix is playing host, so James and Q manage things in the kitchen, making sure that everything is warm and ready to plate up while Felix offers wine and selects the dinner music. M arrives last, apologizing for his tardiness and blaming the PM.

“I’ve been appraising him of the outcomes from the joint mission,” M explains, accepting a glass of wine from Felix. “I told him he was going to start an international incident if he delayed me any longer.”

Felix invites them all to sit around the table. It’s tight, but Bond has moved one of the nearby tables from the sitting room to use as a sideboard, and without needing room for the actual food, they manage to squeeze in.

Felix explains all the dishes, how his family recipes might look a bit different from the ones in Hallmark films that have made it across the pond.

“Another tradition that’s a bit different is that Mimi downplayed the saying of grace,” Felix explains. “Half our family was Cajun Catholic, and half were Baptists, and it was best not to bring up religion at the table. But in the spirit of the holiday, she’d remind us what the family had been through together. What we had to be grateful for. And she made us all say something _we_ were grateful for, and the answer couldn’t be ‘turkey’ or ‘pie’. I won’t put you all on the spot like that, but in keeping with Mimi’s tradition, I’d like to remind _this_ family about our year. And if any of you want to partake, I’m sure she’d look down fondly on it.

“It was just about a year ago that a certain tenacious bulldog of a Brother,” Felix nods at James, who is now frozen with surprise, “caught on to what was happening with Nine Eyes. And all of you prevented what would have been a wholesale disaster for both of our countries. I’m grateful to all of you for stopping it. And like many shared traumas, it came with a silver lining. James and I have been brothers for years, but it wasn’t until his… hiatus, that I became friends with all of you. Q helped clear out the infection from our systems, and as a result, he and I worked closely for _months_. Even after that chaos was over, I continued to get memes sent to me at odd hours until… well, yesterday, actually.”

Q huffs a laugh across the table from James, and he’s not the only one smiling.

“Those first few months were rough. We had agents from seven countries consulting on missions to clean up the rats as they tried to abandon their various ships, and Eve and Bill were both instrumental in coordinating intelligence. And M. I never knew your predecessor. I understand she got James started investigating this shadowy organization — from the grave, no less— but I’m not sure she or anyone else could have led us through that mess the way you did. So, I’m grateful to all of you, both for doing your jobs so well and helping me do mine, but even more for being my friends. We’ve been through a lot. And I’m glad we’re here a year later to celebrate together.”

It’s more sincerity than any of them are used to, lacking in the gallows humor James and his colleagues generally revert to. He looks around the table to see everyone's equal parts touched and vaguely alarmed.

M raises his glass, clearing his throat. “I’m not sure I can adequately follow such a heartfelt speech, but I’d like to echo Felix’s sentiments, and thank him for bringing us all together today. I haven’t really been thinking of this as an anniversary of that time, though clearly we’ve all been busy this year, ‘clearing the rats’, as Felix so aptly put. If it took all that to get us where we are now, I can’t say that I’m sorry for it.”

One by one the others all offer a word of thanks for… well mostly each other, really.

Bond realizes — in a way that perhaps he never really has before — just how much he left them all in their hour of need. Yes, he got started without clear authority from Mallory, perhaps saving them when they were too caught up in the reorganization to see what was really happening. Yes, he was utterly exhausted by the time they captured Blofeld, and he sorely needed to feel like more than just a weapon, and… well Madeleine seemed like a good option. Until he realized that he couldn’t run from the job when the job was so _completely_ part of him. He understood when he came back that he’d have to work to get into everyone’s good (or at least ambivalent) graces again, but listening to what they went through, he’s frankly surprised he was given the chance at all. And where in the past he’s felt very transactional about earning his colleagues' goodwill, he now truly does feel grateful. So when his turn comes around, he doesn’t hesitate.

“I’m thankful I was allowed to come home,” James says. “After leaving you all to clean up the worst of it on your own, it would have been easier for you to keep me on the sidelines. I’m grateful you didn’t.” He notices Eve and Q exchanging a glance before adding, “and I’ll continue to work to deserve this second chance you all gave me.”

“Third, isn’t it?” Eve asks with a teasing lilt in her voice. And thank god, because this is proving to be entirely too much sincerity for a single meal.

“I’m not counting my hiatus after you shot me off the train, Miss Moneypenny. That one I deserved.”

Laughter around the table puts them all on more comfortable footing as Felix encourages them not to let it get cold, and food is passed around the table. Q is the only one who doesn’t quite seem to recover, occasionally stealing thoughtful glances at James through the meal.

And the meal is delicious. Not in a four-star hotel sort of way… it’s unpretentious. But it’s flavorful and varied and hearty. From the turkey to the mostly-authentic New Orleans dressing, to the potatoes and vegetables… James has truly never had anything quite like it, nor has he ever been part of a “family dinner” like this. At least not in memory. He realizes as he watches them all joke with one another that he is still not really a part of it. He has individual relationships with each of these people, but because he ran off with Madeleine, he missed the trial by fire that forged the bonds between them all. He prevented the world from going to a very dark place, blowing up whatever he needed to in order to prevent it from happening. But _they_ had to put it back together. And though he’s helped since he’s been back, the worst of it was already behind them.

He’s almost envious of the ties they share.

After dinner, James and Q put the remaining food in the refrigerator while Felix cuts and serves the pies, offering everyone small pieces of bourbon sweet potato pie and Derby pie — pecan and chocolate chip — with fresh whipped cream. And despite the fact that they are all full to the gills, no one leaves any on their plates.

Felix offers them coffee and bourbon, but tomorrow is a workday for most of James’ colleagues, and they start to excuse themselves and leave, thanking him profusely. James stays behind, organizing the kitchen and starting to wash up again.

When Felix protests, James says, “I’m not going to let you cook for me _and_ wash up. Go pour yourself a bourbon, Brother. I’ll take care of these.”

“You’ve already done a lot of dishes today,” Felix says, but he doesn’t protest otherwise, pouring three glasses of bourbon and handing them out.

“Just like being back in the Navy,” James says with a wink, taking a sip and then getting to work. Q manages to get Felix to sit on the sofa and relax, and then starts clearing the plates from the table and carries them to James.

After bringing over the fourth pile of dishes, Q murmurs, “You’ve grown quiet tonight.”.

“Have I?” James asks quietly, checking to see if Felix is noticing the conversation. “I suppose I was enjoying listening. I didn’t realize how close you’d all become.”

And there it is. The look Q has been giving him all evening. As if he can’t quite make James out. Q takes a sip of his bourbon and watches him do dishes. After another moment, he says so quietly James almost doesn’t hear it, “You never told anyone.”

James looks over as he places another dish on the dry rack. “Told them what?”

“What you saw. Halloween.”

“Of course not. I wouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

James looks at him, taking in the way Q is biting his lip and hesitantly meeting James’ gaze.

“Because you don’t want them to know.”

“I didn’t want _you_ to know either,” Q mumbles, but it doesn’t have the heat James has become used to.

“All the more reason for me to keep silent,” James murmurs back. “Besides,” he whispers quietly enough that Q has to come closer to hear, “it was never my intent to _tease_ you. That’s not why I followed—”

There’s a rustling from the other room; James swallows the rest of the sentence as he glances back to see Felix rising from the sofa.

“Q—” he tries to continue.

“Later,” Q interrupts in a harsh whisper, stepping back and fiddling with his bourbon. James sighs and starts in on the last few dishes.

“Are you two almost done?” Felix asks as he approaches. “I can get the cards out if you want to play some poker. I wouldn’t mind winning some of my money back.” He gives James an odd look and then raises an eyebrow toward Q.

“I can’t,” Q replies. “I took today off, but I still need to attend the budget meeting tomorrow. I’d best be heading out. Thank you, Felix. It was quite a delight. I’m sure your Mimi would be proud.” Then he shocks James by giving Felix a _hug_ — not a one-armed awkward gesture but a real embrace. And Felix returns it, wrapping both thick arms around Q’s narrow frame. James looks away and finishes the last dessert plate.

“Sure you can’t stay?” Felix asks into Q’s ear.

“Positive. But I could be convinced to take some pie home with me.”

“Sweet tooth,” Felix complains.

“You know it,” Q agrees, ending the embrace.

“You’re both taking home leftovers. There’s no way I’ll finish them otherwise. How about you, Brother? Staying for cards?”

James dries his hands on the towel and turns. “I think I’d better be off, too. M wants me to look over intelligence from Germany to see if we encountered any of their flagged individuals in Prague. Best not be hungover.” He crosses his arms and tilts his head toward Q. “Can I offer you a ride home?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Q replies, “Thank you, but no. I have my motorbike here, so as long as the food Felix intends to send me with fits in my rucksack, I should be fine.”

James files that little bit of intel away to consider later. He might press the issue if it were raining, but the night looks uncharacteristically clear through the window.

Pity.

They pack up their food and collect their belongings and loiter awkwardly by the door saying their final good-nights. Q leaves first after giving Felix another hug and offering James a small wave before heading down the hall to the lift. James can feel Felix’s gaze as he buttons his coat.

“Care to explain any of that?” he finally asks when James looks up.

“I have no idea what you mean,” James deadpans.

“Of course you don’t. Well. I’ll just have to resort to my own contacts.”

“Please don’t.”

Felix gives him a grin and a one-armed hug. “Thanks for coming, Brother. Be careful out there.”

“I know, I know… and move my arse.”

Felix is still laughing as the door closes between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading... see you around Christmas.


	3. Christmas Eve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Ficmas Eve! 
> 
> Many thanks to Anyawen for the beta help and encouragement. This fic, and my fandom experience in general, wouldn't be the same without her.
> 
> I hope you all have (and have been having) peaceful and pleasant holidays. Thanks as always for reading.

‘Love Actually’ plays on the television in Heathrow’s Gate B48 as Bond disembarks. He weaves amongst families carrying Christmas packages, skips the baggage claim — everything is in his carryon — breezes through customs, and makes it to the line of cabs well ahead of the packs of over-excited kids and already-exhausted parents.

“Vauxhall Cross SIS,” he tells the cabbie as he settles in the back, only to realize that “All I want for Christmas is You” is playing on the radio. It really is impossible to avoid that film.

Not that it bothers him, actually. It should. It always has. But taking in the garish fairy lights and tinsel decorating the windows of the cab, he feels comforted. He missed being in London over the holidays last year — somehow, Christmas in Jamaica didn’t have the same sense of tradition. He watches the city go by, lit up and decorated for the holiday as the last of the shoppers bustle about. The shops will be closing soon, and the city will retreat indoors to various homes and churches.

It almost makes him wish he’d taken the time to decorate his flat before leaving for this most recent series of missions. He was never much of one for celebrating, but he feels oddly out of step with his city, and one thing that his hiatus taught him is that he doesn’t like that feeling at all.

He’s dropped in front of the building and pays the cabbie, who is wishing him a Happy Christmas in an accent that hints at eastern Europe and East London. Bond gives him a healthier-than-usual tip and makes his way inside and down to Q Branch.

The boffins have their own version of holiday decorating, and it has been going on for well over a month. It started in November, when strings of colorful paper flowers and paper lanterns had been hung for Diwali. Then a menorah had been “lit” (with custom high-tech torches that mimicked flickering, since fire is frowned upon in the branch) for Hanukkah and is still prominently displayed, along with garlands of paper dreidels. And now Christmas decorations have been added to the mix, including but not limited to a small tree near the door that's adorned solely with Doctor Who ornaments, another tree in the cantina that appears to have been split by an interdimensional portal — half-buried in the floor and half hanging down from the ceiling. Fairy lights are absolutely _everywhere_ , small robotic snowmen wave at the branch from the bank of monitors in the front, and there is more tinsel garland than should frankly be legal. A wreath on the door is decorated with trinkets the agents have collected on their travels — for which Bond has bought an addition from Berlin. As he enters the branch, he sees that it’s apparently “ugly sweater” day. All the boffins are wearing various versions of them — bright, garish things with even more tinsel and actual lights and glued-on ornaments or gifts. Some feature various sci-fi characters… Baby Yoda seems quite popular this year… One reads “All I want for Christmas is EU” with “Santa knows who voted to leave” underneath. Another is the “Tesco Value Christmas Jumper” with a barcode and no other embellishments.

Bond approaches R, who’s gotten into the spirit with a very brightly colored Ganesh sweatshirt.

“Welcome back, 007,” she greets.

“R,” he responds, pulling a small box from his pocket. “This is for the wreath.”

She opens the box and pulls out the small, painted, wooden Santa with a beer stein. Smiling, she says,” we don’t have one from Germany yet this year.”

“Happy to fill out the collection.”

She gives him a wry glance. “This won’t make up for lost equipment, you know.”

“You wound me, R. When was the last time I came back without a full kit?” He places the case on the table so she can inspect it.

“It’s been a while,” she admits, checking in the Walther, radio, earpieces, and burner phone with the virus. “Any trouble getting the data?”

James glances back at her, having scanned the entire floor and not finding Q. “No. I reported to Q while I was in transit. His virus worked like a charm, and I was able to get contacts off their phones before they became suspicious and I had to move on. There are also pictures you’ll want to pull off the phone before wiping it.”

“We’ll be sure to check all the data. I think Q said he’d already connected one of your finds with the money laundering operation out of Prague. He’s got Micah working on it this week.”

“Excellent,” Bond says, still scanning the room. “And where is your fearless leader? I was hoping to wish him a Happy Christmas. He hasn’t left early, has he?” Bond knows Q has plans tonight, despite Q’s customary evasion whenever his personal life is discussed. Things have been better between them since Felix’s Thanksgiving dinner. Q no longer seems braced for Bond to tell all their coworkers about his Halloween outing — not that James thinks Q has anything to be ashamed of. But Q likes to maintain a certain professionalism at work, the present state of the branch notwithstanding. He may appear quirky or nerdy without embarrassment for the sake of office morale, but the fact that he could be _sexy_ is something the boffin apparently wishes to hide jealously. James is happy enough to indulge him. He doesn’t like the thought of the other Double-Ohs knowing.

“No, he hasn’t left yet,” R replies, glancing up at Q’s office. “He’s dealing with a bit of a crisis.”

“A mission?” Bond asks, alarmed.

“I don’t think so. Not one that’s on the roster — I wouldn’t interrupt him,” R calls after Bond as he makes his way to Q’s office. If there is an emergency requiring an agent, Q is going to be hard-pressed to find someone available at half four on Christmas Eve. Bond will just make sure Q knows he’s available…

“I don’t know,” he hears Q say as he approaches his office. “I’ve called Charles and Jonathon both, and neither is available. Charles is already working, and Jon is halfway to Barbados. Lucky sod.”

There’s a pause, and James enters the office and catches his first sight of Q. He’s… he’s wearing… James bites back a grin as Q looks up, gives him a shocked, wounded look, and then sighs in resignation.

“No, I’d be pants at it,” Q says into the phone, ignoring James as he approaches, “Yes, I know them all, but they know me, too. And I’m not built for the role. I don’t have the… gravitas.”

James stands before Q so that he can’t be ignored.

Q sighs. “Just a moment, El.” He covers the receiver of the phone and asks, “What is it, Bond?”

James raises an eyebrow. “R said there was some sort of crisis. I thought I’d offer my services. Is an agent in trouble? I can change my suit and be on my way on a new mission immediately.”

James can’t quite interpret Q’s expression. “That’s… thank you, Bond, but it’s not _that_ kind of crisis. It’s… it’s something per… well, not _personal_ , but… not work-related. Have a pleasant evening and holiday. Welcome home, and all that.” He turns back toward his desk and asks into the phone, “What about the chap from Surrey. From two years ago. Yes, William… oh, you have? Damn.”

“Q,” Bond interrupts.

“Bond!” Q spins, looking as fierce as a person _can_ while wearing a jumper covered in Santa cats. “If you need something else, please discuss it with R. I’m rather—”

“I’m offering my services,” Bond says calmly and clearly.

Q stares at him. “Your particular skill set is not a good match for—”

“It sounds like you have a need on… on a mission, of sorts. I’m volunteering my services.”

Q absolutely gapes. “You don’t even know what it is,” he insists.

Bond shrugs.

Q looks torn. A voice that Bond can’t quite make out is coming through the phone.

“I… hold on,” Q responds to whoever is on the other end of the call. “It’s a colleague...No, not particularly, but… just… let me… I’ll be right back,” he says abruptly, placing the call on hold and staring at Bond. “You don’t want to volunteer for this,” he says.

“If it will help you, I do.”

Q closes his eyes for a moment. Deciding, James realizes. Then he sighs. “I volunteer with a group that distributes gifts to in-care children across London,” he explains. “And tonight is our big party, during which Santa distributes the gifts and we eat mince pies and… and we just found out our Santa’s in hospital. And it’s Christmas Eve and all the other Santas are booked or gone for the season. And I’d make a shite Santa.”

“Father Christmas was always a bit gaunt-looking, what with all that hiking in the snow—”

“You’re not funny, Bond. And you’re not exactly rotund yourself.”

Bond considers that. “You have a suit and a fake beard?”

“Yes, but—”

“I can stuff a pillow down my front. The kids aren’t going to care.”

“You don’t know them, though. The kids. This isn’t like a mall Santa. We always train the person up so they can interact with the kids.”

“Do you know them?” James asks.

“I know a lot of them. Not all, but a lot—”

“Will there be _someone_ who knows them all?”

“Of course. Simon knows every last one, but he’s Emcee.”

“I’ll wear an earpiece. You or he or someone else can feed me the kids’ names.”

That stops Q short. He thinks for a moment, shaking his head slightly as if trying to reject the conclusion he’s coming to. Then he takes the call off hold and raises the phone to his ear. “I’ve found someone,” Q says. “No, but he’ll wear the beard and wig. Find a pillow; he’s a bit too fit for the role, but I think he can make it work… No… and I’m not keen on him seeing me in an elf costume, but I daresay he’s seen me in worse,” he adds, giving Bond a rueful look. “Yeah… alright. We’ll be there within the hour to get ready. Cheers.”

He hangs up and stares at Bond. After a moment, he says, “Give me your phone.”

“Why?” Bond asks. He doesn’t delay in handing it over. He’s in Q Branch and the Quartermaster has demanded a piece of tech… his immediate response is to comply.

“Because there will be _no_ pictures tonight.”

Right. He’s still mad about that, is he?

“I never planned to share the picture from Halloween, Q.” Q’s glare makes him change tack. “Besides, the elf costume _can’t_ be more ridiculous than that jumper.”

Q looks down as if reminding himself of what he’s wearing. “It’s a gift from the Minions,” Q explains. “It _is_ rather much, but it’s surprisingly soft.”

Damn. Now James wants to touch it. “At least this time you’d have your own blackmail material,” James offers.

“As if you won’t make a Santa suit look good,” Q grumbles absently as he turns to search his workbench. He checks the power on two comm units and puts them both in a box, slipping it into his rucksack. “We should get going.”

They take Q’s car to a community center in East London. Several lorries are parked and unloading tables and chairs. Inside, a dozen volunteers decorate the room, set the tables, arrange wrapped gifts on a table on the small stage. It’s an impressive endeavor, James decides. Coordinated chaos, but everyone seems happy. Even Q, who still seems resigned to and annoyed with James’ presence, perks up as they enter the hall.

“Oh, they aren’t as behind as I feared. We might pull this off, yet.” He waves at a middle-aged woman with a clipboard, and she waves them over as she finishes consulting about the layout of the buffet.

“Ethan!” she greets as they approach, drawing Q into a quick hug. “And this must be our savior tonight,” she adds, turning and offering her hand to James. “I’m Eleanor.”

“James,” Bond greets.

“Thank you so much for coming on such short notice. We _always_ have a Father Christmas for the kids, and—”

“Your Santa’s in hospital; _Ethan_ told me,” he says, eyeing Q. “I hope it’s not serious.”

“A tree-trimming accident,” Eleanor explains incredulously. “He’s in a cast and loopy on pain meds, but he’ll be fine. He’s in no fit state to play the man of the hour, though. Speaking of the hour, the kids will be here in just a bit more than that. Ethan can show you where to dress and explain the program.” And with that, she was directing other helpers.

“Come on,” Q — no _Ethan_ — says. “I know it looks chaotic now, but she always pulls it together and has it looking perfect before the kids arrive.”

“How many are coming?” Bond asks following Q onto the stage and then into the wings.

“Usually between one and two hundred. I haven’t seen the final list for this year. We give out more gifts than that, but the children rotate through seeing Santa. Most only get to see him every few years, and the youngest kids get priority. Oh good, the suit is ready,” he adds, peeking into a small room off the stage. The entire Santa ensemble hangs on a portable rack, complete with beard and “boot covers” to put over his shoes. “And they’ve found you a pillow,” Q comments. “Everything seems self-explanatory. Go ahead and get changed, and I’ll meet you on the stage in a bit to go over the plan.”

James smirks as the door snicks shut. Even here, _Ethan_ is a Quartermaster.

Twenty minutes later, Bond is inspecting himself in the dingy mirror. The beard is a bit warm, but it’s backed with something to prevent it from itching too terribly. Only his eyes are recognizable under the layers of white hair and red velvet. He tightens the belt to ensure the pillow stays in place and ventures out of the room.

The stage is being set with props: giant candy canes and oversized stuffed animals, a lit tree, and a table laden with individually wrapped and labeled gifts. Q stands beside the table dressed in an honest-to-god elf costume — striped yoga leggings and a green tunic, pointy hat, and booties.

Bond curses the fact that Q had the foresight to take his phone.

Then again, it’s likely there will be quite a few people taking pictures of the kids with Santa… so pictures are likely inevitable. He eyes the people he doesn’t know, wondering if he could work on any of them to get a picture of Ethan to him...

Q is organizing the gifts in rows, checking against a spreadsheet on a tablet. He looks up as James approaches. “Oh! That will do. You make a passable Santa, Bond.”

“Don’t lavish too many compliments on me, Q. It might go to my head.” He looks Q up and down, sorely tempted to comment.

“Don’t,” Q says, reading Bond’s expression.

“Never,” Bond says with a quirk of his lips. “So, I’m handing all these out?” he asks, picking up one of the boxes the way he would a scrap of tech on Q’s workbench.

Q swats his hand and takes the gift. “Yes, but please don’t muss my organization. Now, they’ll come up in cohorts — groups of ten. Their gifts are arranged in those same groups. I have the descriptions of the kids in my spreadsheet, along with some notes, so I’ll be able to help you actually pick them out of the crowd and comment on something personal. Assuming these work,” he adds, tapping the box with the comms.

“Shall we check them?” James asks.

They run standard tests, make sure they have all the gifts ready, and just as they finish up they hear the squeal of children as they enter the hall.

“Go hide in the wings,” Q says. “I’ll grab us both a few snacks before the tables are ransacked.”

The excitement in the room is palpable. Bond can’t quite remember ever being this excited as a child. Ever. Though he imagines he must have been. There are _so_ many. Some of them are quite young. James is happy that there doesn’t seem to be a throne for him to sit on. He won’t be expected to let them sit on his lap…

“Here,” Q offers Bond a handful of biscuits, startling him from his reverie. He tilts his head, surveying James’ expression. “Just another mission, Bond. I’ll be in your ear the whole time.”

James nods and takes a bit of biscuit.

And Q’s right, mostly. It goes off without a hitch. One of the not-Q-elves is _very_ enthusiastic and introduces Santa with great fanfare — the famed Simon, it would seem. James walks out on stage, does an appropriate wave and ho-ho-ho, and the not-Q-elf starts handing James gifts. Q is in his ear, so as soon as James says the name, Q helps him find the child and feeds him some line to make him seem all-knowing. And it’s fun. The kids are so excited to get their presents, so happy to meet _him_ , and the elves keep things moving so the time actually flies. Soon the children are all back at their seats, opening their gifts and eating their pudding. Bond is feeling quite accomplished until he notices a lone gift still on the edge of the table.

“There’s another gift,” he says softly, knowing Q is still monitoring his comm.

“Who is it for?” Q asks as James approaches the table.

“Phyllis,” James says, examining the card. “Is she here?”

“The list shows her as present. Oh. A note’s been added by Eleanor. Phyllis is unhappy and—”

James scans the room and notices a small girl hovering near the stage curtains, way off to the side… she’s practically hiding, and it looks as if she’s been crying. “Red jumper?” he asks.

“That’s her, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea to engage—”

“Phyllis?” James asks softly as he approaches her.

She nods and wipes her eyes.

James drops to one knee beside her. “You didn’t want to come to get your gift?”

She shakes her head. “Not… not in front of everyone.”

“Bond, she’s had a disappointment,” comes Q’s soft explanation.

“That’s okay,” James says to her, moving them further behind the curtain. “We don’t have to be on the stage. Have you been a good girl?”

It’s the wrong thing to say, apparently. Her expression goes pained and she wipes her eyes. “I try to be, but it’s not enough.”

James tilts his head. “What makes you say that, love?”

“Because… because they didn’t want me. They chose someone else.”

Q swears under his breath. “Adoption fell through yesterday,” he confirms distractedly, clearly reading new information as it comes in.

“I’m sorry, Phyllis,” James says. “That must have been very disappointing.”

She nods, wiping her cheek. “But you can’t be sad on Christmas,” she says, obviously quoting someone.

“Of course you can,” James replies. “You go ahead and feel what you feel.” As her lip begins to quiver, he adds, “You know, I’m an orphan, too.”

That distracts her. “Santa’s an orphan?” she asks incredulously.

Perhaps he hasn’t thought this through. “Have you ever heard stories about Santa’s parents?” Bond asks.

She ponders that for a moment. “No. Does it make you sad?”

James shrugs. “It used to, but I found things I liked to do, people I like to be with. And I’m sure you will, too.”

As she considers Bond’s words, Q feeds him information about her gift. “So, I hear from my elves that you’re good with games. One game in particular.” James holds out the wrapped package.

Phyllis’ eyes widen as she accepts it. “Can I open it now?”

“I’d like you to,” James assures her.

She tears the paper, finally showing some of the enthusiasm of the other kids. It’s a chess set, which Bond would have assumed was the last thing a child in the modern era would want, but what does he know about kids? She seems genuinely thrilled.

“My elves tell me that the woman you live with gives you the chess puzzle in the paper every day, _and_ you can even solve some of them,” James says.

“Only the easy ones on Mondays or Tuesdays,” she clarifies.

“Well, that’s a start. And see this sticky note? That’s the youth chess association. You sign into that website, and you’ll find other kids at your level to play with—”

She throws her arms around his neck, and it’s all he can do to not be knocked over. He wraps an arm around her thin frame.

“I’m going to go show it to Jason,” she says as she pulls away. “He plays too, he taught me online. But now I have my own board!”

“Happy Christmas, Phyllis,” James says, waving as she runs back to her table.

He stands and turns toward Q, who is giving him a very odd look.

“You are the _best_ Santa we’ve ever had!”

Bond turns to see the excitable elf, the emcee, approaching from the floor, apparently having witnessed the exchange with Phyllis. “I’m Simon,” he says, holding his hand out.

“James,” Bond replies, shaking his hand.

“You must _love_ Christmas,” Simon says.

“Not particularly,” James responds. “But I see what you’re all trying to do here, and it’s good. I’m glad I could help.”

“Well, you get to help more… it’s time for carols and pictures.” Simon reaches out and tugs on James’ sleeve. “And then you’ll have to join us afterward. We all go to a pub after cleaning up and get sloshed and try to find some mistletoe to snog under.” Simon gives him a wink.

James barks a laugh. “Naughty list,” he warns with a smirk. “I don’t know about the pub, but I’m sure we can sing a few carols.” He turns back to Q, whose expression is even stranger now. “Are you coming, Ethan?”

“Oh,” Q straightens up. “Well, you’re the man of the hour.”

“True, but where would Father Christmas be without his trusty elves?” Bond insists. Q offers a little shrug and stashes the tablet he’s been carrying.

They get started with ‘Good King Wenceslas’ and all the kids join in; the little ones actually start dancing. By the third song, James has made several observations. First, Q has a very nice singing voice. He’s a bit soft at first, but as they continue singing and more voices are added, Q projects loud enough for James to hear clearly. Second, he knows _all_ the words. To everything. Second and third verses and all. And finally, as the kids start wanting “Selfies with Elfies”, Q doesn’t shy away from it. He picks up the smaller kids and lets them play with the jingle bell on the end of his hat and is indulgent in all the ways he really isn’t at work.

Every so often, Q catches Bond watching him and raises his eyebrows as if to ask “what?” James just keeps singing or talking with the kids, offering Q a small smile. He’s enjoying himself. But more, he’s enjoying seeing Q enjoy himself. Once again, he feels he’s been offered a glimpse into a side of Q he hasn’t seen before, but this time it’s by invitation. An invitation under duress, perhaps, but an invitation nonetheless. James treats it like the gift it is.

Eventually, the evening winds down, and the kids are shuttled back to their homes, and nothing is left but detritus and exhausted-but-happy volunteers. James changes back into his suit, leaving the Santa costume hanging on its rack, and finds Q packing up his bits of tech and elf costume. Before he can say anything, he’s approached by Eleanor with most of the other volunteers in tow.

“I just don’t know how to thank you for giving up your Christmas Eve and coming on such short notice,” Eleanor starts, presenting him with a small package. “This isn’t much, but I hope you’ll accept it as a token of our appreciation.”

“Oh, this isn’t necessary,” Bond assures, glancing over at Q. “I’m just happy to help a friend.”

Q motions for James to open it. It’s a bright red scarf with “Ho Ho Ho” embroidered on the end. He wraps it around his neck. “It’s quite soft. Thank you.”

“Now off you go,” Eleanor says. “You’re not helping clean up.”

“Oh, but then we can’t drag him to the pub,” Simon complains. “I was hoping to see how rosy his cheeks got with a bit of _wassail_.”

Bond shakes his head, smiling. “Simon’s on the naughty list,” Bond confides in Eleanor.

“Don’t I know it,” she replies with a knowing look. “Well, thank you again.”

“Peace on earth and all that,” Simon toasts with a small flask.

“That’d put me straight out of a job,” James mutters under his breath, startling a chuckle out of Q.

They finish saying their goodbyes and enter the cold, damp, London night. A mist hangs in the air and makes a halo around the moon as they walk back to Q’s car.

“I want to th—”

“So do you—” Bond stops. “You first,” he insists. There’s another pause, and it feels odd. He and Q didn’t use to be this hesitant around each other.

“I want to thank you,” Q says, finally. “I’m sure it’s not the way you normally celebrate the holiday.”

“How do you imagine I normally celebrate,” James asks, curious.

Q shakes his head. “I don’t know. Theatre. Ballets. Posh parties serving caviar.”

James puts his hands in his pockets. “I normally ‘celebrate’ alone, if it can be called that. It’s not that I hate Christmas, but I’m frequently out of the country, and… it was great when I was young, but after my parents died, I basically ignored the holidays as much as I could. It’s nice to do something that keeps me out of my own head. That helps someone else.”

“The kids really do look forward to it all year. I like it for that reason, too.”

“I’m glad I was able to help make their Christmas special, but I was really talking about you.”

Q shoves his hands in his pockets, searching for his keys. “I _do_ owe you one for this,” he says.

“No, you don’t. That’s not what I mean.”

Q unlocks the car and they both get in. The seats are cold and their breath hangs in the air as Q starts the car and turns the heat on full. “You said—” Q starts. “You told Eleanor you were helping a friend.”

“Yes,” Bond confirms.

“Is… is that what we are now?” Q asks.

“For my side,” Bond says, sighing and leaning back into his seat. He’s not exactly sure why everything seems so hard when it comes to Q, or why he cares so much, but both seem to be perpetually the case. Or rather, he suspects he _does_ know what he did that set him back… not just to the beginning… not to zero but negative _ten_. He looks over at Q, who is eyeing him again, this time with the assessment of the Quartermaster. Weighing things. Deciding.

“Okay,” Q finally says, putting the car into gear.

“Okay? So we can be friends now?” Bond asks to clarify.

“Friends,” Q confirms.

James can’t help the smile that spreads across his face. “Does this mean I get a copy of the photo Simon took of the two of us in costume?”

Q mutters something.

“Sorry, Q, I didn’t quite catch that.”

“I _suppose_ ,” he repeats, clearly fighting a smile. He turns onto the A13 and heads back toward town and James’ neighborhood. The streets are nearly empty at this hour on Christmas Eve.

“How many years have you been involved in this holiday tradition?” James asks. Because he’s a friend now, and friends can ask such questions.

“I’ve been doing this sort of thing since I got back to London. So, seven years? I switched to this particular group when I became Q and had to change my name.”

“To Ethan. So it’s an alias?”

Q gives him a sideways glance. “Yes, but one I’ve had for a while. It’s how most people who don’t call me ‘Q’ know me. Friends included.”

Bond nods. It’s not uncommon for identities to be wiped as people reach the higher levels of government, especially if they may become targets and want to protect people in their old lives. Bond wonders if that means Q _isn’t_ an orphan.

They pull up to Bond’s building, and he finds he’s disappointed that the evening is over. Q puts the car in park and pulls two phones out of his pocket. Shaking his head as if he can’t quite believe he’s doing it, he sets up a link between them and transfers a file, and then hands James’ phone over to him.

James immediately opens the photo app, grinning at the photo of him and Q by the Christmas tree, both in full costume.

“It’s perfect.”

“That is not to make its way into _any_ part of -6,” Q warns. “I mean it. I’m trusting you, here.”

“Ethan, I’m a spy. I’m very good at keeping secrets for my friends.”

“Well, I suppose I’m safe, then,” he says with a quirk of his lips. A long moment passes as they settle into this new arrangement, after which Q says, “Happy Christmas, James.”

James tightens the scarf around his neck. “Happy Christmas, Ethan.”

He collects his bag from the back, offers Q a final wave, and heads into his quiet flat. Toeing off his shoes and removing his coat, he surveys the dark, empty sitting room and the view beyond the window. He pours himself a scotch, then moves to the window. Holiday lights twinkle from the surrounding buildings, and trees glow in windows across the street. Peaceful. Almost distractingly quiet. If he’d come straight home after the mission the silence might have made him melancholy, but now he’s able to enjoy the peace and contrast it to the squeals of a hundred happy kids. He catches the faint form of his reflection superimposed on the view, almost surprised to see its smile.

He pads down the hall to his bedroom, feeling light despite the weariness from the mission finally catching up with him. Opening the wardrobe door, he removes the red scarf from around his neck, smooths it almost tenderly, and hangs it beside the pink feather boa.

He’s considering them both, side by side, when his phone buzzes.

It’s another picture, this one a candid. James is kneeling beside Phyllis and Q is standing a bit behind them, watching on. Simon must have taken it before they realized he’d approached.

Under the picture, Q has written, “Don’t worry, I can keep your secrets, too.”

James studies the photo, aware that the "soft underbelly" he typically denies having is on display. 

He finds he trusts Q to keep it safe.


	4. New Year's Eve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one month! 
> 
> Many thanks to Anyawen for the brainstorming, hand-holding, and beta help. And many thanks to all of you who have been reading and commenting.

He’s called in on short notice and enters Q Branch to find it even more chaotic than the usual late afternoon frenzy. He can’t even locate Q; R is at the center console.

“James!”

He turns to see a fellow Double-Oh approach.

“They called you in, too?” Marcus asks him. “Where are you headed?”

“Barcelona. You?”

“Zagreb. That’s all I have, though.”

Bond considers the two destinations. “Smuggling ring?” he guesses.

“If they’re even related.”

“009,” R calls to them. “You’re with me. 007, the Quartermaster went to retrieve some tech you’ll need from the labs. He’s pulling everything together for you in his office.”

“Duty calls,” Marcus says, tilting his head to James before moving to the center station.

Bond heads to the left and climbs the stairs to Q’s office, finding the door open, but the cluttered space devoid of Quartermasters. He takes the opportunity to study his surroundings. Q doesn’t have a lot of obviously personal items in his office — no photos or art or other items that might give an impression of his taste. At least, that’s what James has always thought. On closer inspection, the messy bookcases offer some insight. Most of the books are practical and job-related: texts on materials science and engineering, encryption, and rows of technical journals with frayed bookmarks highlighting articles of interest. But nestled in among those technical resources are books on various countries, and a whole shelf dedicated to comic books, though Bond doesn’t recognize any of the characters.

He turns and notices a sleeve of shiny fabric protruding from behind the office door. A peacock blue tuxedo with a subtle diamond texture and satin lapel. Modern color and fabric, but with a fairly traditional design. It’s not something he’d wear himself, but he can imagine Q looking quite smart in it. Speaking of the man…

“007. Good. I’ve just about got your kit together,” Q says upon entering his office. “What have you heard about the mission?”

“Just this,” Bond says, holding up the very thin folder M had given him.

Q grimaces. “It’s not much to go on, I know. Part of why you’re getting this,” he says, holding up a small tablet. “I know it doesn’t look like much, but it’s connected to a VPN that will make even the airline wifi safe, and we can update your files as you travel. The screen is very low contrast. It can’t be read unless you’re wearing these,” he adds, holding up a pair of reading glasses.

Bond tries them on and immediately the words pop off the screen. Without them, it appears blank. He looks at Q to see how they affect his general vision and notes some color in Q’s cheeks. He must have rushed back up from the labs.

Q clears his throat and straightens his own specs. “Please log into it and keep it on while you’re in flight. The information on this mission is changing so quickly, we’ll likely have updates to send. Here are your tickets and documents — do try to use the alias, Dorothy went through so much trouble making it. And here’s your Walther, comm unit, and phone. Same software for contact retrieval as last time. Your flight leaves in two and a half hours,” he finishes as he hands over the last of the gear and glances at the clock on the wall. “Any questions?”

Bond holsters the gun and slips the other items into his pockets. “Weren’t you meant to be off tonight?” he asks.

Q sighs. “Weren’t we all? The universe isn’t that kind. Now pip pip. Off you go.”

“Yes, Quartermaster.”

“Oh, and James?” Q asks just as Bond has made it to the door.

“Yes?” he asks, turning.

“Be careful out there.” Q’s expression is softer than usual.

“I’m always careful.”

“Yes, well, try not to blow up any buildings,” he clarifies. “Some of us are still hoping to get to New Year’s parties tonight. I’d rather not have to clean up any of your messes tomorrow while sporting a hangover.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Bond says with a wink. “No promises.”

He rushes to get to the airport in time for the flight. It’s surprisingly crowded and there are already images of fireworks broadcasting from Australia and Asia throughout the terminal. Bond boards and orders a drink; he manages to read the handful of updates to the file that have come through to his new tablet over the course of the smooth, two-hour flight. By the time he disembarks, goes through customs, rents his car, drives to his hotel, and gets settled in his room, it’s well past midnight in Barcelona. He pours himself a scotch and looks out the window to admire the nearly-full moon reflecting on the Mediterranean.

The passport for his alias will have pinged in MI6 when he entered customs, but it's still polite to check in, and as it’s still only half-past eleven London-time, he doesn’t feel able to sleep yet. He pulls the comm unit from its case in his pocket and places it in his ear, activating it.

“Q Branch,” comes a voice he doesn’t recognize.

“007, checking in,” he replies. “Safely arr—.”

“Hold please, 007.”

The line goes dead for a moment, and then after a click, Q’s voice responds with, “007? Report.”

“I was just saying, nothing of interest to report,” Bond continues. “I’ve safely arrived at the Hotel W. Thank you for the posh room, Q.”

“Only the expensive rooms were available,” Q complains. There’s another click of the line, indicating that Q has turned off the mission recording. “But I’m glad _you_ at least get to enjoy your surroundings.”

“For the evening, anyhow. The water is calm and the moon is bright... and no one seems to be shooting at me.”

Q huffs a laugh. “Small favors.”

“We take them where we can.” Bond takes another sip of his scotch, wondering whether Q’s tone infers a willingness to push beyond professionalism and venture into their newly-acknowledged friendship. “Does the fact you’re accepting calls after 11 mean you didn’t make it to your party tonight?”

Q sighs. “Well, I was told that if I was going to be so _very_ late, there was little point in showing up at all.”

Bond winces. “Pity. I was hoping to see a photo of you in your peacock blue tuxedo.”

“You saw that, did you? And are you going to take the mick for color? Or the sheen?”

“On the contrary, compared to what I’ve seen you wear for the previous holidays, it’s practically Savile Row. And if the color is a bit… unconventional… well, if we can’t be flamboyant on New Year's Eve, when _can_ we be?”

“Carnival, I think Felix would say. Though a mere hint of iridescence wouldn’t do for that.”

“Sequins and feathers, at the very least,” Bond agrees, grinning at the thought. Q seems to enjoy costumes. James can only imagine what he’d do at Carnival. “Not a London tradition, sadly.”

“No, rather papist,” Q agrees. “Though you’ve made it to _Día de los Muertos_ , so I suppose I could make it to Carnival, sometime.”

“We can only hope Felix has a camera.”

Q snorts at that, and James takes another sip of his drink.

“Not disappointing anyone important, I hope,” James ventures.

“Tonight’s date?”

“Hmmm.”

“Well,” Q considers after a brief pause, “not anymore, I daresay.”

“I’m sorry,” Bond replies.

“Are you?”

“Well, as your friend, I suppose I’d be happier if at least one of us had gotten a new year’s kiss. Seems a waste.”

Q sighs again. “It’s probably just as well. This bloke isn’t on the inside. Probably wouldn’t have worked anyway.”

“Even so,” Bond says.

“Yeah, I could have done with a midnight snog. Which reminds me: I’ve been asked to give you a message.”

“About a snog?” James asks, grinning into his whisky.

“Not exactly, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind… Simon asked me to give you his number.”

“Simon the elf?”

“There’s really only one Simon.”

Bond barks a laugh. “I believe you’re right about that.” Bond takes another sip. “I’m sorry, how did this come up?”

“Well, we were debriefing after Christmas Eve — lessons learned for next year, that sort of thing — and afterward he pulled me aside and said that if we weren’t dating, would I mind passing his number to you, seeing as how I’m friends with both of you.” Q’s inflection is almost a question, but not quite.

“I see. So Simon isn’t the one you left hanging tonight.”

“God no! And you make it sound like I had some choice.”

“Sorry, bad phrasing,” James says. “But _you_ haven’t dated him?”

“No,” Q assures. “I mean, he’s a great guy. We’re mates. But he’s a bit…”

“High maintenance?” James guesses.

“He would say _I’m_ high maintenance. And Cory, my date for tonight, is probably telling everyone that will listen about how high maintenance I am.”

“That’s the job, not you.”

“You don’t know me well enough to have commentary on my dates’ complaints.”

“I have more to learn,” James acknowledges. “But you aren’t difficult, Q. Or demanding, when it’s not for the job. I know that much.”

Q sighs. “Well, it hardly matters now. Anyway, don’t worry. I’ve told Simon he isn’t your type.”

“I like him,” James clarifies. “If we were meeting all together in a pub for a laugh, I’d enjoy his company. But no, I’m not interested in asking him out.”

“He won’t be surprised to learn that the handsome ones are always straight. And he attracts shiny objects and is drawn to them himself. He won’t be disappointed for long.”

“I never said I was straight.”

Q stumbles. “But… you have a reputation as a ‘ladies man’,” Q insists.

Bond sighs. “I am more than my reputation, Q.”

“I... of course—”

“As are you, I’m sure.”

There’s an awkward pause, which James immediately regrets.

“I’m sorry, Ethan. People _will_ assume that because I do what I do on missions, I’m not interested in anything else. It’s tiresome.”

“I don’t think that,” Q insists. “I’m aware that you're interested in a... more meaningful connection. You've left the agency for it — _twice_. I just also know that both times it was with a woman.”

“That’s true,” James admits, suddenly very tired. “Working from the best available information, you’d have no reason to suspect anything else.”

There’s another pause. “But friends shouldn’t assume,” Ethan counters. “You aren’t a mission. I don’t have to make calls based on the best available information.”

“You don’t,” James agrees. “But I also don’t need to jump down your throat over it. I’m sorry.”

There’s another pause, but this one isn’t as awkward. “You know,” Q says, “there’s nothing shameful in being straight.” There’s an almost wry tone in his voice that makes James smile.

“I know. It just isn’t the truth. And it’s annoying to have assumptions made about one.”

“Don’t I know it,” Q mutters.

James snorts a laugh.

“So, what _is_ your type? Just so I know what to tell Simon,” Q questions.

James huffs a laugh and takes a sip of his scotch. “Well, I enjoy a straightforward flirt as much as the next man, so I can see why Simon might have thought I was interested. Please apologize if I gave him too much encouragement. To _hold_ my interest, though, I’m afraid something more than flirtation is needed. My _type_ , if such a thing exists, is smart, beautiful, and deadly. And honest. Or at least as honest as adults and spies ever are.”

“A tall order,” Ethan muses. “‘Beautiful’ rather implies—”

“I didn’t say ‘feminine’,” James clarifies. “Mountains can be beautiful. Men can be, too.”

“I see. Well, Simon is attractive in his way, but not at all deadly, to my knowledge.”

“Exactly.”

“And I don’t suppose I should encourage him to go on a killing spree just to garner your attention.”

James snorts a laugh. “M might frown on that.”

“Quite. Poor sod.”

“I daresay he can do better than a worn-out old agent who’s perpetually out of the country, anyway.”

There’s another pause, during which Q seems to fumble for what to say. “You might be right,” he finally comments. “I think Simon is looking for someone more… consistently available than either one of us can really promise.”

“Occupational hazard,” James agrees. “What about you? Seems only fair that I should know your type, since I’ve told you mine.”

“Ah, that’s not… I suppose… Brunettes,” Q finally blurts out. “Willowy, male brunettes. Who can cook. And have, ah, massive book collections.”

Bond files all of that away to contemplate later. “Hmm. Another tall order. And do you meet many of those?”

“Not so far,” Q says, “but hope springs eternal.”

“And the bloke tonight? Did he meet all of those criteria?”

Q sighs. “I never really did have the chance to find out. It hardly matters now. As you said, he can probably do better than someone who’s called away for work all the time.”

“At least we can keep each other company on New Year’s Eve. Even if it’s only over the comms.”

“And it’s just gone past midnight, here. The fireworks will have started.”

There’s a wistfulness in Q’s voice. Clearly, he expected to be seeing them. “Sorry you’re missing them,” James says, and he finds he means it.

“It’s not so bad. Later there, though. You should get some rest. Demanding day tomorrow.”

James ponders his scotch. “Happy New Year, Ethan.”

“Happy New Year, James.”

James disconnects the call. Lifting his glass, he softly sings to no one, “We'll take a cup o' kindness yet, for days of auld lang syne,” and finishes his drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It may be a while until our next holiday arrives, so please be sure to subscribe if you want to be notified. Thanks so much for reading!


	5. Burns Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Time for another holiday. Shhh. Don't tell Bond.
> 
> Many thanks, again, to Anyawen for brainstorming, sprinting, beating, and being a friend. This story would not be as fun without her.
> 
> Thanks also to Virtual Burns Supper (https://virtualburnssupper.tumblr.com/post/639312926564548608/virtual-burns-supper). Their posts proved to be a treasure trove of information that I relied on immensely, since I have never actually celebrated a Burns Supper. I didn't use ALL their info, since I was portraying a more casual affair at a pub, but I tried to include quite a bit. I hope they have many other offerings for their on-line Burns tribute.
> 
> And thanks to all of you who read and comment and let me know that there are folks on this year-long journey with me.

Bond enters Q Branch, the stickiness of travel still clinging to him, despite his attempts to wash up in the airport loo. He’s surprised to find Eve perched on a stool beside Q’s station, but makes his way over.

“007, what have you got for me?” Q asks, adjusting his glasses.

“A full kit,” he reports, setting the case on the table, “minus some ammunition and two of your tracking devices. Pierre Landeau will shortly be less of a mystery, I daresay.”

“Sarafina is tracking his car as we speak,” Q says, nodding at one of the monitors at the front of the room. “And Micah is working through the contacts you ripped off his phone. Excellent work, Bond.” Q looks him over. “Have you reported to M yet?”

“I’m on my way to him next.”

“And medical?”

“No need for that,” Bond assures.

“You aren’t injured?” Q asks as Eve watches on, grinning.

“No,” Bond replies, hesitantly. What had Q heard to make him think James might be injured?

“Did you manage to get some sleep last night?”

“I… yes. A few hours,” Bond answers, eyeing Eve suspiciously.

“Excellent!” Q replies. “After your debrief with M, meet us back down here.”

“Another mission?” Bond asks, taking care to keep any weariness from his voice.

Of course, it doesn’t fool either one of them.

“Something rather less dangerous,” Q says with a quirk of his lips. “At least, let’s hope so. You reserved a table?” he asks, turning to Eve.

“For 8 at six. You, me, Mac, Katie, Sarafina, Tanner, and Bond… and Ian if he can get away, but I don’t think that’s likely.”

“Excellent. Bond, did you leave a car in the garage during the mission?” Q asks, tilting his head.

“No,” Bond replies, looking back and forth between them.

“Not a problem,” Q responds, “you can ride with me.”

“And just where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise,” Q says with another quirk of his lips. “Best report to M so we’re not late.”

James looks to Eve for any hints, but she looks like a cat who’s swallowed a canary — too pleased by far.

“Pip, pip,” she says, waving him off with Q’s trademark dismissal.

“Thick as thieves,” he mutters under his breath, before placing his hands in his pockets and retreating to the lift with as much dignity as one can muster when friends are conspiring.

 _Friends_.

When he enters M’s office ten minutes later, he finds that curiosity about the evening’s plans has pushed aside his earlier weariness. The debrief is uneventful and blessedly short — M seems to have already heard the mission was a success and is just interested in Bond’s opinion about some intelligence 009 has uncovered separately. As he leaves M’s office with instructions to take a few days off, he finds Tanner donning his coat by the lift, ready, apparently for their evening adventure.

“So, are _you_ going to divulge our destination tonight?” Bond asks as they wait. “Eve and Q seem intent on secrecy.”

“Secrecy? In a spy agency?” Bill offers with mock incredulity. When Bond sighs softly, he adds, “I wouldn’t want to spoil their fun, but I _am_ surprised you haven’t guessed.”

“It’s not Q’s birthday, is it?” James asks, suddenly concerned he should have a gift.

“No, that’s in summer sometime,” Bill answers, holding the door open for Bond to go through when the lift arrives. “It’s more to do with you than him.”

“Well, I know it’s not _my_ birthday. It’s just a Monday evening in late Jan— oh.”

Bill bites back a smile as the doors open. Q and Eve enter, because of course they’ve been notified that James is done. Q has a muffler of Black Watch tartan draped around his neck.

Eve grins at Bond’s lack of reaction. “Cottoned on, have you?”

“Off to get some haggis, are we?” Bond asks, buttoning his coat. He hasn’t been to a Burns Night celebration in… well, memory, really. The dinner at Corrigan’s Mayfair just never captured the sense of revelry he’d remembered from his early childhood.

“I’m going for whiskey and shortbread,” Eve says.

“I told you, you _have_ to try it,” Q insists. “I was skeptical as well, but the stuff The Thistle gets in is quite lovely.”

“You’ve had haggis?” Bond asks, genuinely surprised. “Most Londoners are rather put off at the thought.”

Q shrugs. “I’ve lived in France. Haggis isn’t nearly as strange as the things considered delicacies there.”

They separate in the garage, Q and Bond head to his car discussing Q’s time in France: Paris briefly, but longer outside Dijon. By the time he and Q get to the pub and find parking, the room is bustling. It’s fortunate they’d reserved a table, because the walk-in customers are jammed into standing-room in the bar, without a view of the small stage in the corner. The minions have already arrived and taken up the far end of the table. He knows Sarafina and Katie a bit, but the one they call Mac must work in the research labs, because Bond has never seen him on the Branch floor. He’s a bit taller than Q… lithe with dark hair and just a touch of a Scottish accent.

James takes an immediate dislike to him.

They order a round of scotch while Mac offers the others a quick primer on Robert Burns, the unofficial poet laureate of Scotland. As Mac explains, Bond looks around the room. He’s been to The Thistle before, of course, but other than the national flower on the sign outside, it has never struck him as particularly Scottish. That’s all changed tonight. There are Scottish flags and banners with tartans and Burns’ portrait and the odd Celtic knot. A few patrons are wearing proper kilts, but there are many more of the “utility” types with a tartan showing up in a tee or — among the ladies — tights. But what the crowd lacks in tradition, it makes up for in enthusiasm. He finds he enjoys the informality of this young, urban approach to tradition.

The scotch arrives, as does Ian, sliding in next to Eve and across from James and Q. They all raise their glasses and toast. It’s really too loud to hear the whole table — and the conversation at the other end seems to have shifted to the portrayal of boffins in the media, which James could not care less about. He focuses on Tanner and Ian discussing football as Eve sighs between them. He meets her eyes and raises his glass to her, smirking as he takes another sip. It’s good. Just what he would have picked after a long but mostly uneventful mission if the choice had been up to him. The fact that someone else ordered it just makes him feel in good company.

“So when was the last time you celebrated Burns Night?” Eve asks in an attempt to change the subject.

Bond shakes his head. “It’s been a while. Though I did sing a few words by him just earlier this month.”

Q snorts, and when he sees Eve furrow her brow, he adds, “Burns wrote ‘Auld Lang Syne’... or at least he wrote it _down_... it was based on a traditional song that was only part of the oral history before that.”

“I never took you for a lover of poetry,” James says, holding his glass to warm the scotch.

“I’m not, really. But I had a… a friend in uni who was very keen. And I always like that line… ‘The best-laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men, Gang aft agley’. Fits _you_ come to think of it,” Q says, taking a sip of his scotch with a gleam in his eye.

“Oi. My plans on the last few missions haven’t gone awry at all,” Bond protests.

“James’ plans never go awry,” Eve interjects. “Except when they do, _spectacularly_.”

James is about to make a comment about _shots_ going awry when an older man in a proper kilt takes the small stage and demands their attention.

“Welcome everyone to The Thistle’s Burns Supper. As y’ve no doubt noticed, the usual pub menus are not on the tables. We’re servin’ a proper supper of neeps and tatties with whiskey sauce — that’s turnips and potatoes for you English — and of course the dish of the evening, haggis. Now, before you show yourself to the door, our haggis is locally sourced lamb and venison with oats, onions, and spices. And it is the most delicious thing in the town. But before we can serve it, we need to say the Selkirk Grace. If y’know it, go ahead and join in.

_"Some hae meat and canna eat,_

_and some wad eat that want it,_

_but we hae meat and we can eat,_

_and sae the Lord be thankit."_

Bond joins softly, almost under his breath, but Q notices and glances at Bond out of the corner of his eye. James has never much thought of the words, but the idea of ‘want’ makes him remember the kids on Christmas Eve. And his childhood… though his own ‘want’ then was never for anything so simple as meat. Much the same as his wants now, actually.

“Now, y’ave all got your drams,” their host continues, raising his own glass of whiskey, “so let’s tip those drams as we salute the haggis.”

And from behind them, there’s the sound of a bagpipe. A _real_ bagpipe. Bond turns, expecting to see an old man in a full, traditional kilt. Instead, it’s a very shapely young woman in a rather short one, paired with a leather corset, Doc Martens, lace stockings, and rather wild ginger hair.

“That’s not regulation,” Bond whispers to Q, who snorts and gives James a speculative look.

She’s good, though, and she definitely has the attention of the entire room as she slowly parades toward the stage. A man walks behind her in black jeans and a Scottish Flag tee, carrying a platter with a whole haggis displayed amongst herbs and garnish. They parade slowly to the stage with a level of ceremony befitting Mayfair, but where it would be met there with a slow clap, here the room erupts in whistles and hoots.

When they reach the stage, the pipe falls silent and the host recites "To a Haggis", cutting into it as he reads—

_"His knife see rustic Labour dight,_

_An cut you up wi ready slight,_

_Trenching your gushing entrails bright,_

_Like onie ditch;_

_And then, O what a glorious sight,_

_Warm-reekin, rich!"_

The room erupts into applause again, and a fresh round of whiskey arrives along with plates of food.

“Well,” Eve says, ”I’m not sure about poems _or_ food that mention _entrails_ , but I have to admit this smells good. Do I want to know what’s in it?”

“Do you ask that of the salami in your lunch sandwich or the sausages in your breakfast?” Q challenges. “Best focus on the fact that it smells heavenly.”

And it does. Haggis can be… variable. But this really does smell appetizing, and it might be the gamier flavors of the venison adding some complexity, or it could be the enthusiasm the whole table seems to have. The ‘neeps and tatties’ are also delicious, and as they all eat, their host gets back on the stage and offers a mini TED talk about Burns — an “Immortal Memory,” perhaps not as scholarly as some James has heard, but heartfelt. Afterwards there’s a lovely ballad played by the piper, and then the host turns to her, raises his dram, and offers a “toast to the lassies.” Where the speech about Burns had been sweet and serious, this toast starts off by contemplating the dichotomy of the ‘fairer sex’, and particularly ones that can inspire trembling of both fear and longing, with their fierce piping and their cunning use of lace. The piper frequently interrupts either with the pipes or a fierce pose, and by the end the entire room is filled with raucous laughter. As the plates are cleared, she takes the mic, offering the responding “toast to the laddies,” which mostly speaks to how much the men are eating and drinking and won’t be good for much tonight, and then continues on to an impromptu “toast to the none-of-the-abovers,” offering a modern and inclusive twist on the usual tradition, and earning a hoot and “represent!” from Sarafina. The other minions cheer Sarafina on, and Q raises his glass in support.

This isn’t how Bond expected the evening to go. Obviously… he didn’t realize he’d be heading out with this particular assortment of friends and strangers, but even when he realized they were heading out for Burns Night, _this_ isn’t what he’d expected. It’s at once reminiscent of the celebrations of his youth, and much more urban and cheeky. But mostly, it’s _fun_. Their whole table is clearly enjoying themselves. The boffins at the far end are boisterous and rowdy, but in an almost comforting way. Bill, Eve, and Ian are somewhat more sedate, but still laughing and clearly enjoying themselves and the food. And beside him, Q practically giggling at something Eve has said, leaning his elbows against the table, completely relaxed.

Another round of plates is passed out to the tables, these ones featuring Scottish sweets. The host is reading Burns’ poems as the shortbread and whiskey caramels are passed around the table — Eve’s expression goes absolutely orgasmic as she takes a bite of the caramel, earning a snicker from Q, who shoots a conspiratorial glance toward Bond.

“I think the tips of Ian’s ears have gone a bit pink, don’t you?” he murmurs to Q, earning another snort.

He can actually feel Q quaking with laughter beside him. Q’s gotten closer over the course of the evening. James hadn’t even realized it at first, but as the whiskey has flowed and they’ve had to lean in to be heard over the crowd and the pipes, they’ve inched along the bench toward each other. And Q’s thigh is now pressed into James’ and James is suddenly _very_ aware of the heat and strength he can feel seeping through his trouser leg.

Q isn’t sloshed by any means, but he’s warm and loose in a way he isn’t typically in the branch, leaning across the table and a bit into James’ space as he teases Eve. James takes a piece of shortbread from the plate and is delighted when it melts in his mouth.

“Do you miss it?” Q asks abruptly.

“Miss what?” James asks. The poetry recitations appear to be over for the night, and after a brief round of applause, the host leaves the stage and the piper is joined by a drummer and an electric guitarist, and the music takes a turn for the energetic.

“Scotland,” Q clarifies, watching the stage.

“Only when I’m at my most melancholy,” Bond answers absently. “Though I do sometimes miss the sweets I grew up with,” he adds, grabbing another piece of shortbread.

Q smiles and motions to the server, having a quick and annoyingly secretive conversation with her. She eyes Bond as she walks away, but Bond is busy trying to press Q on what they’d discussed. Stubborn boffins are stubborn though, and Bond leans back in his seat in defeat — well a temporary setback. And that’s when he notices the boffin they call Mac watching Q from the opposite end of the table, a considering expression on his face.

Bond leans in to whisper to Q. “I think you may have an admirer,” he says, because a _friend_ would, even if said friend is currently enjoying the feel of Q’s leg against his.

“Who?” Q asks, glancing around the room.

“Mac,” Bond responds. “Don’t look,” he laughs as Q looks. “He’ll know I told you.”

Q leans back shaking his head. “Not my type,” he announces.

“He’s tall,” Bond counters, “and brunette.”

Q just looks confused.

“I’m not sure I’d call him ‘willowy’ exactly, but—”

Some sort of recognition crosses Q’s expression. “But he’s, ah, in my department,” Q protests.

“No office romances?” James asks. “But you said the bloke from New Year’s was probably a bad bet because he _wasn’t_ on the inside.”

“True,” Q agrees. “I’m not opposed to _all_ office romances,” he says, motioning to Eve and Ian, “but I’m his direct supervisor. Definitely bad form.”

“Ah, well, his loss,” James says, oddly relieved. Q seems to have noticed, finally, how close they are now. He sits up and leans forward, shifting… not away exactly. It’s more that the closeness before had been completely unconscious, and now that Q is aware of it, he’s _deciding_. James almost holds his breath as the moment stretches, and Q finally settles again, in much the same position he had been in, but this time with an _awareness_.

Q is letting James in. Or at least, not slamming barriers up between them. Another test of this new friendship perhaps, that they are allowed to be close not just over the comms, but physically as well, and it’s all fine. Bond hides a pleased smile behind his nearly empty dram and catches Tanner watching them both. He raises an eyebrow, but Tanner just sighs, and before Bond can press him on anything, the server is back with two takeaway bags: a small one she places in front of Bond, and a much larger one she hands to Q.

“What’s this?” Bond asks.

“Sweets for the road,“ Q responds. “We’ll never get the plates back from that lot,” he adds, nodding to the minions at the other end of the table. “You should see them descend on the trays M periodically sends down. I ordered a box to take to the branch tomorrow, and a smaller one for you so you can have your share without terrorizing the minions.”

“I wouldn’t have ter—”

“Without being terrorized by the minions,” Q corrects with a wry look.

Bond peeks inside the bag. “That’s very considerate of you, Ethan.”

“Just feeding a friend’s sweet-tooth. Plenty of people do it for me.”

“Felix?” James guesses.

“To name one,” Q agrees. “Though Eve always seems to know the best bakeries.”

James glances at Eve, but she’s completely engrossed in a conversation with Ian, and neither of them seems aware of the larger room anymore — despite the fact that the larger room has grown louder and rowdier as the music moves to Scottish-influenced rock. And it’s not at all bad — certainly, the crowd is enjoying it, if clanging their drams on the table to the beat is any indication — but Bond’s mission-weariness has suddenly caught up with him. No doubt, the excellent food and whiskey are making both his stomach and mind feel heavy and slow. And though he’s still enjoying the feel of Q’s leg, he thinks perhaps it’s time to go.

He thanks Q again for the sweets, puts several notes on the table to pay for his share of the festivities, and asks Q to let him out of the bench seat.

“Do you need a lift home?” Q asks, but Bond shakes his head.

“Stay and enjoy the music. I’ll just catch a cab. I can collect my carry-on from you later in the week.”

“If you’re sure,” Q responds, hesitantly.

“I am. It’s still early. If I’d gotten a bit more sleep last night, I might stay myself, but good food and good scotch… well, let’s just say I’m pleased I don’t have to worry about being chased or shot at.”

Q offers him a smile and wishes him a good night as the others wave their goodbyes. He notices Mac watching him leave…

Outside the air is damp and chilly and helps clear his mind. The sights and smells and _feel_ of the street are London through and through, but the flavors of the meal and the whiskey, the music, the warm lights, and pleasant company remind him of festive evenings in Scotland he's not thought of in years. His mind drifts to the north. To the sound of pipes echoing across the wintery moor as the bard’s words drift upstairs from his parents’ dining room.

He finds himself smiling as he hails a cab for home.


	6. Valentine's Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, MANY thanks to Anyawen, who is serving as an alpha contributor/brainstormer, and a beta reader, and occasionally a co-author on this fic. In this chapter, particularly, she helped me cut an entire scene, reorder some of my writing, and added a few sentences which are largely intact in the final version. This is all to say that merely listing her as a beta reader doesn't really cover her involvement, and I'm very grateful to her.
> 
> This is a long chapter (even after cutting a scene)... there just seemed to be a lot that needed to happen in this one. I'd say don't get used to it, but I think we all know me by now... Also, there might be one or two tropes in this one...
> 
> And finally, many thanks to all of you who are reading and commenting!

“I can’t believe M agreed to this,” Q says as they leave the head office and make for the lifts. “For that matter, I can’t believe _I_ agreed to this.”

“I was rather surprised myself,” James replies, offering a small grin at Q’s exasperated look. “I really do think it’s the best option.”

“I wish I could disagree, but here we are,” Q sighs, making notes on his tablet. And worrying his lower lip. He does this when he’s nervous, James has noticed.

“Q?” James asks as he presses the button for the lift.

“Hmm?” he asks without looking up. The doors open and they both step through.

“Ethan,” Bond says, pressing the buttons for Q Branch and the garage.

That gets his attention. Q meets his gaze as the lift begins to move.

“I won’t let anything happen to you. I’ll be by your side the entire time, and I _will_ protect you.”

“I’m… okay." He lowers the tablet. "Thank you. I don’t think I’m worried about that…”

“Is it the acting? Posing as a couple—”

“No, that’s… the fact that we’re friends and comfortable around each other should make it believable. Certainly more so than if I tried to send another Q Brancher. I’m not worried about that.”

“What has you worried, then?” James asks, tilting his head as his usually cool and collected Quartermaster fidgets under his gaze. 

Q sighs and combs his fingers through his hair, making his fringe go a bit wild. “I’m… I’m used to being in charge, but from behind the scenes. I’m untested in this situation. With the short notice and uncertain tech, it makes sense that you need more support than someone in your ear, but... I don’t want to muck it up.”

“If it’s any consolation, I have complete faith in your abilities. I’ve seen you tackle a huge logistical problem while playing a role, after all.”

Q huffs a laugh and shakes his head. “Santa’s elf won’t cut it for this mission. What sort of alias _do_ we need R to build,” he asks, studying the street flyer Pierre Landau had sent to James, along with a handwritten note scrawled along the bottom inviting James to join him to view the parade and enjoy a more private — and decidedly LGBTQ friendly — party from his residence on Champs-Élysées. “You’re trying to get Landeau to show his hand a bit during this ‘Paris Festival’… so you need me to be what exactly?”

James places his hands in his pockets, thinking a moment. “Nothing specific,” he starts. “Pierre is under the impression that he’s grooming me — that I could possibly sell some of his wares through Universal Exports. He’s been speaking so far of _legal_ wares, but the hints are always there of other opportunities. We don’t yet know _which_ of his illegal wares he may want me to bring in and auction from the back room, but I suspect that part of his asking me to this party is to judge my taste in paramours and any... indiscreet proclivities.

“You already look younger than you are, and that will give him the impression I prefer younger men. If you dress as if you’re going for a night of clubbing, I imagine that will give enough of an impression that I like young, adventurous partners, and perhaps a bit of a power imbalance. And with that ‘knowledge’ he might be more inclined at our next meeting to ‘tempt’ me with some of his illegal ‘wares’.”

“Trafficked boys,” Q clarifies. “I don’t look _that_ young.”

“You don’t,” Bond agrees. “But we’re still dancing with him. We’re not even sure he’s the one running the ring. You don’t need to do anything — or dress in any way — that makes you uncomfortable. But we need your alias to be a bit less buttoned-up than the Quartermaster.”

Q glances at him, and James suspects he’s thinking about the same thing James is: Halloween. After a moment, he nods. “I probably have something that will do. Not a Carnival-type costume — more clubwear — but it will have to work since there’s no time for a shopping trip. I’ll have R develop the documents for an alias while I get the rest of my tools ready, and I’ll be ready to leave within the hour. We’ll just have to hope that my field agent skills develop quickly.”

“I’ll coach you,” Bond assures him. “You’ve certainly observed enough missions to have a sense of what’s needed, but I know that’s not the same. I’ll coach you on the parts you don’t have direct experience with. But Q... I wouldn’t have asked for you if I thought this was beyond you. Everything I said in M’s office is the truth.”

“You just want to get a picture of me in clubwear for your collection,” Q mutters. But his dimple is showing, and James takes that for a good sign.

“This is a lot of effort for a _picture_ , but I wouldn’t say ‘no’,” James says with a wink. “Besides, I have every faith in your ability to remove any photos from my collection that you don’t approve of. Whether _I_ want to keep them or not.”

“Quite right,” Q admits, another hint of a smile quirking his lips as the lift begins to slow.

“This should be fun,” Bond continues, “aside from the hacking and possible violence.”

“Yes, aside from that,” Q says, with a roll of his eyes. Then the doors open and he’s on his way, and Bond continues to the garage.

An hour later, he’s driving a still-distracted Q to his flat, and then finding himself invited in.

“Do you want me to help pick out your party clothes?” James asks as they enter the sitting room. It’s cluttered, but pleasantly so. A treasure trove of insight into Q.

“God, no,” Q answers. “That’s Ada and Alan, by the way,” nodding at each cat in turn. “They are demanding little monsters and will claw you if you don’t pet them just how they want. Consider yourself warned.”

“An attack puss, are you?” James asks, bending to pick up the grey Persian. “You seem like a proper lady to me.”

Q just stares at him for a moment as Ada looks at James skeptically and then starts to purr in his arms. Shaking his head, Q disappears down the hall.

It gives James time to peruse the bookshelves. The books themselves are interesting: more science and computing books, encryption, histories of terror groups, histories of espionage. But then he finds an entire bookcase of fiction. The novels appear to be primarily science fiction. James recognizes some of them — books by Heinlein and Clarke and Bradbury and Huxley — and other authors he is less familiar with. Larry Niven and Stanislaw Lem. Octavia Butler. And there are more comics. Some even bound like books. They range from unfamiliar takes on familiar characters ( _Dark Knight Returns_ ) to films he’s seen on airplanes ( _V for Vendetta_ ) to things he’s never heard of ( _I Hate Fairyland, Kill Shakespeare_ ) and a few that look quite serious ( _They Called us Enemy_ , _Maus_ ). He grabs one called _Check, Please!_ that he assumes is about restaurants until he sees the cover. He puts it back on the shelf.

Then he notices _How to Tell if Your Cat is Trying to Kill You._

“I can’t believe you would inspire such an investigation,” he says to Ada, who blinks her green eyes at him. “And who are _they_?” he asks her, indicating a framed photograph as he reaches for the book. The photo shows Q and two other people, their arms tangled around each other’s shoulders as they grin at the camera. One looks familiar — from Halloween, James thinks. The other pictures don’t include Q and appear to be from long ago. Parents, maybe. A skyline that looks vaguely German. Definitely not Paris.

Q wanders back into the sitting room with his suitcase ten minutes later to find Bond reading with Ada on his lap and Alan curled beside him on the sofa. James notices a slight double-take and then takes one of his own. Q is not dressed like _Q_. He’s not wearing specs, for one, though he’s moving with purpose, so James assumes he’s swapped them for contacts. He’s wearing slightly shiny, leather, skinny jeans. His shirt is either something he’s worn while painting or is from a high-end designer. The tears and openings seem too intentional to be wear, and the splashes of color appear to be part of the fabric rather than something atop it. The sleeves are almost billowy, but the shirt itself narrows as his waist and is tucked into the leather trousers and belted in a way that makes his hips look even narrower than they—

“What? Is it too much?” Q asks looking down at his outfit.

“I… no. Is that what you plan to wear tonight?

“The trousers maybe, but I have something a bit more festive in mind for tonight. I just thought that a young tech being whisked off to Paris for Valentine’s Day by his sugar daddy might wear a Parisian designer to show that he knows what’s what. Though this is a few years old now, so maybe it won’t impress them. I could change into something more tra—”

“It’s perfect,” Bond assures. With a slight smile, he adds, “You’re taking to fieldwork with a great deal of ease and aplomb.”

Q rolls his eyes but seems pleased. “I just need to fill their food dispenser,” he says, nodding at the cats, “and then I’m ready to go.”

James rises, earning a disgruntled _meow_ from Ada. “You don’t actually think she’d harm you, do you?” he asks, holding up the book.

Q squints at the book and then shakes his head ruefully. “If I’m ever killed in my sleep, she is your number one suspect,” he quips as he fills a reservoir with cold water and reinserts in a waterfall dispenser. “That should be them sorted. I don’t think there’s anything else.”

“We’ll only be gone one day, Ethan.”

“Says the man who often disappears for _weeks_ on missions that ought to last two days.”

“Well, I promise to deliver you home before chasing any new leads.”

“Hmm.” Q sounds unconvinced. “Eve has a key, if it comes to that,” he muses. “I suppose I’m ready.”

They head to the car and get onto the road, making good time once they get outside London. Q is still going over the mission brief for the first hour, and James lets him. But when he sets the tablet aside, James asserts, “We should go over our cover.”

Q nods. “I’m Liam Bently, a lowly inventory tech and sales clerk at Universal Exports who happens to have caught the eye of Richard Sterling, owner of the company.”

“And how long have we been dating?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Exactly. So let’s decide. I think a month seems right. That would be long enough to justify going away for a weekend and showing affection publicly, but short enough that it’s understandable if we don’t know each other’s families or background in detail. My mother—”

“Monique,” Q says and then freezes.

Bond turns sharply. “That was _my_ mother, not Richard’s.”

“Of course. Sorry. God, I’m pants at this,” Q says, slumping in his seat. “Abigail is Richard’s mother… also dead,” he adds with a sideways glance at Bond.

“It’s fine. We’re unlikely to be quizzed And yes, Richard’s parents are both dead. The best lies are close to the truth.”

Q seems unconvinced.

“Dating a month seems a bit quick for going away for a weekend, actually,” he muses.

“Well, I probably noticed another coworker flirting with you and felt I needed to make a grand gesture to maintain your interest. A tall, willowy, brunette cowork—”

“Who told you?” Q asks, eyes wide. “You’d left the Thistle before he came over.”

“I _am_ a spy, Q.”

“Moneypenny,” Q concludes, leaning back in his seat.

“Moneypenny,” James confirms with a smirk. “See? The best lies are close to the truth.”

“I don’t know what he was thinking, asking me out in front of half the department.”

James laughs. “It wasn’t half the department, Ethan. Though it was in front of the Chief of Staff. That could be problematic.”

Q shakes his head. “Let’s not think on that. So, you’re making a grand gesture… trying to sweep me off my feet by taking me to Paris on Valentine’s Day… well done you. And why are you interested in a lowly tech who’s probably after your money?”

James gapes at Q. “You’re joking.”

“Well, you’re the owner, definitely in a better position. It makes sense I’m interested in you. But why would you—”

“We don’t need to make up a cover story for why I’d be encouraging the interest of a young, lithe lover. That will be self-evident.”

Q just stares a moment. “Oh,” he says, turning to watch the road as color stains his cheeks.

That’s going to be interesting, James decides. And make their relationship more convincing to anyone watching them.

The next hour is spent going over details of the alias and then the two of them quizzing each other and getting used to their new names, until they reach the Paris city limits. Q goes quiet as the _Arc de Triomphe_ comes into view, enthralled with the sight.

James navigates to the alley behind the historic house, where a carriage house has been converted into a garage abutting the back entrance. Parking the car, he climbs out and collects their baggage from the boot of the DB10. He sees a man standing beside a door, and decides that must be their way in. “Come on, Liam,” he calls as Q puts the tablet in a shoulder bag and drapes it across his chest. “Don’t muss your shirt, love. I can get that.”

Q startles slightly at the endearment, but then seems to melt into a role right before James’ eyes.

“But you’re carrying all the heavy bags,” Q says, sliding a hand along Bond’s shoulder playfully and walking beside him with a noticeable sway of his hips. “I can manage this small one.”

He stays close to James as they make their way to the doorman, show their invitation, and are buzzed into the house. They take a few steps up to the ground floor, where Pierre breaks away from speaking to the caterers to greet them.

“Richard! You made it,” he says coming forward and shaking Bond’s hand. “And who is this?”

“Pierre, meet Liam Bently, a dear friend of mine. Liam, this is our host, Monsieur Landeau.”

“Please call me Pierre,” he greets, taking Q’s hand to shake. “We’re all friends here, after all. And aren’t you delightful?” he adds, looking Q up and down with a leering gaze. He waves down a man in a white uniform. “Please take Mr. Sterling’s bags to the Blue Room,” he says, nodding to James to release the suitcases. “Come upstairs. I’ll give you the tour. You just have to excuse the preparations,” he says, leading them to the right through the large entry and toward a grand staircase. James notes the man with their cases heading toward an old-fashioned metal cage elevator in the opposite direction.

“The house was built in 1869 by architect Auguste Tronquois,” Pierre starts. “There’s a private courtyard through there,” he adds, pointing, “and an entrance to the park. This ground floor is mostly the kitchens and household offices. Living quarters for the help. There are 30 rooms in the house,” he says as he starts climbing the stairs. “And it used to be that these lower floors were for receiving guests and the attic for the servants, but I do like the view once you get above the trees, so I’ve flipped the living and entertaining spaces as I’ve updated. There are, of course, some historic features I just couldn’t bring myself to change. These Herringbone wood floors are more than 100 years old and still gleam. But I’ve made a few updates.”

They reach the first floor and are told that it’s mostly guest rooms, but not where they’ll be staying. Bond makes a show of nodding and “hmmming” as the descriptions go on. Q sticks close with him, a hand hooked onto James’ elbow, affecting _Liam’s_ mannerisms. But James sees the sharp eyes of the quartermaster darting to the corners of the room and noting the locations of cameras and security panels. The second floor includes a library, game room, and study. Probably where the computers are stored. And more cameras. The third floor is being set up for the party. It’s dominated by one large ballroom. Low lounge seating arrangements line two walls, and a third holds tables being laid out for a buffet. The fourth wall is all windows leading out to a narrow balcony looking out over treetops, and in the distance…

“The Eiffel Tower,” Q says, awestruck.

“If you like that view, wait until you see it from your room. This way.”

Pierre leads them across the room and into a hallway, where another security panel is built into the wall.

“My private rooms are through there,” Pierre says, gesturing to a closed — and no doubt _locked_ — door closing off the rest of this story, “and this stairwell leads up—”

He cuts off as the security panel begins blinking. Pierre steps up to the display and uses the touch screen to cancel the alert, then navigates through two layers of options to reply to a question from within the system “Pardon. The party coordinator needs me to sign off on a delivery. This will just take a moment.”

Pierre navigates the interface quickly enough that James can’t quite tell what’s happening. But James notices the “Intégration Sécurisée” in the upper right-hand corner. “Okay, that’s settled,” Pierre says, closing down the panel and moving to the other end of the hallway. “This stairwell leads to the top floor,” he says, climbing. “These rooms are smaller and a bit draftier than the ones downstairs, but the views,” he says as he opens a door at the top with a flourish, “are worth it.”

They were obviously servants quarters originally. Or perhaps children’s rooms. The ceiling is pitched on one side and lower than the soaring ceilings in the rest of the house. The windows are smaller than downstairs, but the entire city is laid out before them. And in the distance, again, is the Eiffel Tower.

James couldn’t have designed a more romantic view if he’d actually been trying to seduce someone. For Q, who used to live in Paris and clearly loves it, it’s ideal. Too bad seduction’s not the plan. Still…

“Do you like it, love?” he asks Q, wrapping an arm behind his narrow waist and clasping his hip.

Q barely startles. “It’s amazing,” he gushes. “ _Merci beaucoup, Pierre! C'est tout simplement magnifique. J'adore ça!_ ”

Pierre’s face lights up. “ _Je vous en prie!_ _Vous parlez mieux français que votre ami!_ ” he says, smiling at them. “Richard said he wanted something special. It’s small, but you have an _en suite_ through there, and plenty of room in the wardrobe. And I see that Charles has brought up your bags,” Pierre comments, nodding at the suitcases at the foot of the bed. A rather _small_ bed.

“I’ll let you get settled,” Pierre says, leaving the room and closing the door behind him.

As soon as it shuts, Q throws his arms around James’ neck. James instinctively hugs him back, but is surprised until he hears Q whisper, “We need to check for surveillance. Do you see any cameras?”

Bond glances around the half of the room he can see as they embrace — in case any _are_ watching. “No,” he finally confirms.

“Good. Me neither.” Q pulls away and he’s all business now, signaling to stay quiet with a finger to his lips. He digs through the shoulder bag still draped across his chest and pulls out a small counter-surveillance kit. He sweeps the room electronically as James searches it manually, and after a few minutes, they’re both satisfied. Q removes the bag from his shoulders and places it on the very small table beside the window.

“What time does the party start?” he asks.

“Not for a few hours. I’ll need to do some recon to figure out exactly where the computers are and how we can gain access. My first guess would be in those offices on the second floor, which looked rather secure. But it would be even worse if they’re in his private rooms. I’m not sure how we’ll access those during the party without being seen.”

“We don’t need to,” Q announces, laying more tech out on the small table. “Those security panels were _everywhere_. We’ll set up an exploit on one of those. I just need to find specifications for that brand... _Intégration Sécurisée_.” He now has his tablet set up with a tiny portable keyboard and a secure hotspot generator, and he’s logging into a VPN. “If you can find us one of those panels in an out-of-the-way corner, _and_ if they…” he scans a set of schematics. “Yes! I have a clamp that will connect with that. Where’s my toolkit?”

Q is only speaking in half sentences now, busy with his tech. James lets him be, unpacking his suitcase and putting his toiletries in the loo. It’s not large, but it’s clean and modern. The room itself has an old-world charm in its shape and blue and white walls. But the furnishings are modern and comfortable. The view is _spectacular_. James can’t help but smile, though, at the way Q ignores it in favor of repurposing tech for a mission on the fly.

“You could make yourself useful, you know,” Q mutters, taking a very tiny screwdriver and securing a wire to a bit of tech. “Instead of watching me.”

“I wasn’t watching you,” James lies. “I was trying to sort out if there’s enough floor space for me to make a nest or if I’ll have to kip in that chair.”

“Why on earth would you kip in the chair?” Q asks, looking up from his task.

“The bed is… on the small side. I’m trying to be a gentleman.”

Q snorts and goes back to his tech. “It’s big enough. Unless you snore or steal the covers or _kick_ , I think we can manage.” He squints and rubs his eyes. It’s fine work, whatever he’s doing, and not ideal conditions.

“How can I be useful, then?” James asks, pushing off the door jamb and moving to the bed. He takes a small lamp from the bedside table and unplugs it before bringing it over to the table where Q is working. “Are you peckish?” he asks as he plugs it in. “I could use a search for food as an excuse for finding some candidate panels.”

“Oh, that’s better, ta. And I could eat. Nothing too heavy, please. And if you can’t find anything, I have the rest of the King Cake Felix sent for _Mardi Gras_ packed in my bag.”

“You need more than sweets, _Liam_.”

Q glances up at him with a smirk. “Tea, then, _Richard._ ”

James rolls his eyes but has his marching orders, and leaves the room to Q. He wanders their hall on the attic floor first, noting from the sounds that at least one other guest has merited the rooms with views. There aren’t any wall panels up here — which is a shame, because that would have been particularly convenient.

The next floor down is still bustling. Preparations for the party are in full swing, with a DJ setting up and lights being tested — the open space in the center is going to be the dance floor, it seems — and a whole fleet of people in white culinary uniforms are setting up buffet tables, arranging spaces for platters. He’s pleased to see a bartender wiping down martini glasses. The bar is being set up right next to one of the panels, so that one’s out. He follows one of the white-clad servers down a narrow hall to a staging room… something between a full kitchen and a butler’s pantry, but with large refrigerators that fit platters. From here several other narrow hallways branch off. The widest connects to what must be a servant stairwell and dumbwaiter. There’s a panel here, but the hall gets a lot of traffic. There are two side halls off this one, one leading to storage rooms, and the other curving back toward the main room. He makes note of the panels and keeps exploring.

He holds the door open for a server carrying a crate of plates and heads downstairs. It’s not quite as busy down here, but he can see Pierre welcoming other guests that are arriving. James waves off Pierre’s inquiry and makes a point of inspecting the books in the library. When Pierre takes his new guest upstairs, James continues to explore. By the time he’s made it down to the actual kitchens, he’s a bit peckish, too. He charms the staff and leaves ten minutes later with a tray laden with tea, cheese, and baguettes — just enough to hold them over until the party starts.

“Everything alright, Richard?” Pierre asks as they meet on the stairs, James climbing them and Pierre returning to the ground level.

“Just getting some tea for Liam. We didn’t get a chance to stop for lunch. Your staff is busy and he wanted some time to himself getting ready, so I thought I’d see what I could manage from the kitchens.”

“And they took care of you, I see.”

“Admirably. And thank you for the room. Liam is thrilled with the view.”

“Wonderful! He seems quite… special.”

“He is. And I’m not the only one who thinks so. But I expect whisking him off to Paris for a private party and _that_ room may give me a leg up on the competition,” James says with a wink as Pierre stifles a laugh.

“The City of Love is at your service, my friend.” And with that Pierre continues down the stairs.

James is surprised to find the table clear and the room empty when he enters until he realizes that the door to the loo is mostly shut and the room is a bit steamy. He sets the tray on the table and helps himself to some tea, reading through a copy of _L'histoire de Paris_ he finds on the bedside table _._

Q comes out of the loo 15 minutes later, freshly showered and changed into… well, something quite unlike anything James has seen before. The shirt is crepe silk, with bold color blocks of black and white. The modern look is tempered with black satin ribbon accents on the white blocks, and strands of pearls on the black The sleeves are a touch billowy, but the shirt itself is fitted… or would be if it were fully buttoned. Instead, it’s strategically unbuttoned at the top and bottom to expose tantalizing glimpses of Q's waist and chest. The black leather jeans ride low on his hips, and three silk roses contrast against the black at his left hip, drawing the eye to the bare skin just above it.

James raises his eyes to Q’s face, meeting the raised eyebrow. “Too much?” Q asks.

“Not at all,” Bond replies, still taking it in. “When you said _clubwear_ , I thought it would be mesh or sequins, but this is much more…”

“Sedate?” Q asks.

 _Sexy_.

“Classy,” James decides on.

Q looks pleased.

“I considered putting some charcoal on my eyes, but I was afraid it would irritate my contacts, and I can’t go without them if I’m working.”

“Where _are_ you going to stash your tools?” James asks, wondering if Q plans to carry a bag.

“They’re already stashed.”

“Where have yo— oh… ‘is that an anti-static pry tool in your pants or are you just happy to see me?’”

Q snorts a laugh. “Exactly.”

Bond grins and looks at the tray, telling his wandering mind to behave. “My turn then,” he says, “though I’m afraid my party clothes are a bit more traditional.”

“Well, that suits our personalities, _Richard_. Important man of business, meant to be taken seriously, even when he’s exploring rather indulgent pursuits,” he says, motioning at James with his hand like a gameshow host drawing attention to a prize. “And his high-maintenance boy toy,” he finishes, with a flourish of his hand.

“And it’s working well, _Liam_. Pierre caught me on the stairs delivering your tea and snacks. He thinks I’m quite doting, and perhaps a bit whipped.”

“Sorry, I’m not into that,” Q quips, making Bond bark a laugh.

“Well, we’ll just let him draw his own conclusions. Were you able to modify the tech for use on the panels?”

“I was. Were you able to find a panel I can have my way with?”

Bond smiles, enjoying the easy, flirty banter reminiscent of the repartee they’d exchanged before he’d left MI6. “I found several contenders. We’ll just see which presents the best opportunity as the party unfolds. I don’t know how easy it will be to slip down to one of the other stories once the party is going.” 

Bond retreats to the loo with his tuxedo. It smells of botanicals and is still steamy, and it strikes him as rather intimate, stripping in a place where Q was just washing and grooming. He notes the curl cream on the vanity. He wonders idly if Q always uses something to tame his fringe, or if this is for special occasions. It smells unfamiliar.

James steps into the shower and refuses to wonder when he became well enough acquainted with the scent of Q’s hair to know that.

He emerges from the loo thirty minutes later to find Q sipping at his tea and looking out the window. The sun is setting, making the sky orange and pink against the dark lines of the Eiffel Tower in the background and the silhouetted treetops in the foreground. Q is leaning against the window edge, nearly silhouetted himself. Just a bit of warm light illuminates the sliver of skin showing above his jutted-out hip, and the roses nestled against black leather.

James clears his throat, and Q turns, a pensive expression giving way to approval.

“Very nice, Richard. I can see what Liam sees in you.”

“Mostly the view,” he notes, nodding at the sunset.

“Indeed,” Q agrees with a small smile, not taking his eyes off James.

James can’t help preening a bit as he offers Q his arm.

They go downstairs to find the guests already milling about, eating hors d'oeuvres and watching the sunset. Bond is pleased to note that they fit in with the other revelers. There are plenty of other normal tuxedos, ranging in color from black to purple or red. There are a few outfits featuring sequins or feathers, but for the most part, it’s beads and satin or silk.

Such is not the case with the crowds gathering in the street below, where face paint and sparklers are more the fashion. Q’s shirt may be reminiscent of them, but in the street below, people are actually dressed _as_ harlequins.

It’s joyous, though. More raucous than their party on the balcony and ballroom. He’d say their party is more sophisticated, but he’s not sure that’s quite it, looking at some of the couples. The actual age gap between him and Q is nothing to speak of. The _apparent_ age gap is notable, but socially acceptable in most circles. The apparent age gap of some of the other couples… well, it’s not _clear_ that anyone is underage, but the relative youth and myriad accents certainly hint at trafficking. MI6 is more interested in the possible weapons and terrorism activity, but James _loathes_ human traffickers.

Q is making a show of drinking a lot of champagne. Or rather appearing as though he’s drinking a lot. He takes a glass off the tray of a passing server, drinks several sips, and loses it on some table or other, and then makes a show of picking up another. The result is that over the first hour or so of the party, James trusts that he’s quite sober, but has the excuse to look quite drunk.

He’s sticking close to James, leaning into him, and James grasps his hip in a show of possessive affection. They make a convincing couple, James thinks, and so far the most difficult part of the ruse is keeping his thumb from caressing the bare skin above Q’s hip as his hand rests on the leather. It’s right _there_ , and the way Q fits in his arms feels natural enough that it’s easy to forget that though _Richard_ has every reason to take liberties with _Liam_ , James should be careful with Ethan. He’s new to fieldwork, and while he’s taking to it admirably, James doesn’t want to push things to the point where he may get uncomfortable. It could risk their covers and the mission, as well as their developing friendship.

Fortunately, the revelry of the party keeps them moving: meeting new people, getting new plates of food and new flutes of champagne. Occasionally James spots the keen eyes of the Quartermaster, but for the most part, _Liam_ is a convincing flirt and as smitten with Richard as Richard is doting on Liam.

It’s when the fireworks start and the crowd returns out to the balcony that Liam asks where the restroom is, stumbling a bit and clinging to Richard as Pierre smiles on.

“I’d better help him,” James says.

“Yes, perhaps that’s best,” Pierre comments with a wink to Richard.

Bond leads a stumbling, giggling Q in the general direction of the loo, checking over his shoulder before darting into a side hall.

“Do you really need the loo?”

“Of course not,” Q says with crisp syllables. “This just seemed the first good opportunity to get away.”

“You are proving to be a natural at fieldwork,” James comments, taking Q’s elbow and leading him quickly through the maze of back hallways he explored earlier to the panel in the dead-end hall to storage rooms behind the kitchen. He places himself between the panel and the main hall, blocking Q from the view of any passers-by.

“This is perfect,” Q says softly, getting to work.

The sounds of the party are faint here, and even the clanging from the butler’s pantry and dumbwaiter are muffled. James is just able to hear the sound of Q's zip being drawn down over the ambient noise and draws a breath to comment, but Q beats him to the punch.

“Do at least try to resist the urge to comment about my reaching into my trousers for my tool,” he says dryly.

James can hear the smirk in Q’s voice and can't keep the grin off of his own face. When he glances back, Q has already pried the cover open and is studying the electronics. Smiling, he attaches a clamp to a set of pins. It’s connected to an ad hoc board with a cable trailing off of it. Q reaches into his back pocket for a phone and plugs it in, opening an app. “Now, what are you connected to?” he asks as he clicks through several screens.

Bond glances down at Q’s work and then back out to the main hall. “How long will this take?” he asks. He can make out the distant fireworks over the other muffled sounds. If the display lasts a typical 20 minutes, they should still have at least ten.

“It depends on… oh good. This will work beautifully.”

He’s typing away now with both thumbs, and Bond doesn’t disturb him. He knows that the fastest way to get them back to the party is to let Q do his thing. James waits as Q works, until he starts to hear a new sound.

Bugger.

“We have to go,” he whispers, returning to Q. “Close it up.”

“It’s in the middle of the upload,” Q protests.

“We’ll find another portal and try again,” Bond hisses, hearing the footsteps come closer. Heels — probably a female server. “Close it! Someone’s coming. I should have taken us downst—”

Q grabs Bond by the lapels, pushes him up against the wall with the open panel and dangling phone, and _snogs_ him, pressing his full body against James’ and hitching a leg over his hip.

Bond catches Q’s thigh in his hand and wraps an arm around his back, and bloody _fucking_ hell, Q is a good kisser. Aggressive enough to offer a thrill, but ceding some control as Bond brings his hand up from Q’s waist to cup the back of Q’s head. They fit together well, and Bond would love to just lose himself in it — it feels like _forever_ since he’s just given himself over to a kiss. But now is not the time. He maneuvers them with a slight twist to give himself a better view of the main hall as Q grinds against him… just in time to see a woman in a uniform and sensible heels start to pass, see them in the distance, and freeze.

He breaks off the kiss and presses his mouth into Q’s neck, just below his ear. “Moan,” he whispers, grasping Q’s arse and pulling him closer.

Q does, and despite the fact that it’s for their cover, it goes straight to Bond’s cock. He closes his eyes for a moment, getting himself under control. When he opens them, the hall is empty.

“She’s gone,” Bond whispers, releasing Q and then grasping his arm to steady him as he sways on both feet.

“Right,” Q says, blinking. “Right. I’ll just…” He makes a motion with his hand for Bond to get out of the way. When he has, Q examines the phone, navigating to a new screen and confirming some stats, humming in approval as he disconnects the phone, then the clamp. He slips the phone in his back pocket and hands the clamp and associated wires to Bond so he can replace the cover. He snaps it into place and then activates the touchscreen with his knuckle to ensure everything is working.

“Okay,” Q says, holding out his hand for the tech, which James gives him. He turns his back to James and returns the tech to its former home, and James takes the opportunity to adjust himself as well. “Maybe I’ll get to actually drink some champagne now,” Q says, turning to face James, looking all put back together.

Which doesn’t seem quite right.

“Wait,” James says. “You’re not nearly mussed enough to sell the idea that we just got caught in the hallwa—”

“Right,” Q says, hesitantly stepping closer. James runs his fingers through Q’s curls, making them stand up a bit. He pulls at the shirt so it’s hanging slightly askew. “Bite your lips to get them more swollen.”

Q does, and he does the same. He starts to move away, but Q says, “Your hair is too short to muss properly, _Richard_.”

“What do you suggest, _Liam_?.”

Q pulls down on James’ collar and leans in, sucking what James knows will be a _spectacular_ bruise peeking above the edge of his crisp white collar.

James stifles a gasp and feels the jolt of arousal spike through him just as Q pulls away.

“Better. Now you look like a man who just teased his young lover to distraction in the hall.”

“Young minx, more like,” James responds a bit dazedly, wrapping an arm around Q the way they’d been linked through most of the party. “Let’s get you some more champagne, _Liam_.”

They return to the ballroom just as the crowd is starting to filter back in after the fireworks. Perfect timing. The DJ starts playing dance music, and the mood of the party shifts to something much more akin to a club. They mingle some more, the roles of Richard and Liam fully in place again. After a bit more food and a glass of champagne, Q announces he wants to dance.

“No one’s stopping you,” James says as Pierre approaches with a drink in his hand.

Q pouts, making James laugh.

“I’ll join you in a minute, love,” James says. “I want to finish my drink.”

Q slips his arms around James’ waist inside his jacket. “Promise?”

James nods. “And I’ll admire you in the meantime,” James says, turning him toward the dancefloor and slapping his arse.

James can see Q in the arched look he shoots over his shoulder as he walks away to join a group of dancers, but the giggle and the sway of his hips are all _Liam_. James stifles a fond grin, but not before Pierre notices. Fortunately, it works with his cover.

“I can see why you’re taken with him,” Pierre says, admiring the retreating form.

“There’s something about him,” James admits, shaking his head.

“Hmm. So, I’m informed by my kitchen staff.”

James gives him a chagrined look. “I, ah...yes. I’m afraid we caught with our pants down. Well, not _down_ but… I’m sorry if we shocked your staff.”

Pierre laughs. “I assure you, my staff is not so easily shocked,” he claims with a gleam in his eye. “In fact, I make a point to ensure _all_ my guests are well satisfied with their stay, but I don’t suppose I need to intervene on your behalf. You don't require any... introductions?”

“Not this time,” James says, noting the way Pierre glances at a woman standing several meters away. She’s blonde and shapely and just a touch doe-eyed, though something in the way she stands makes him think she’s dangerous. “Liam is… quite a handful,” James continues, “In the best of ways.”

“Yes, I heard that, too,” Pierre quips, earning a bark of laughter from James.

His hand actually twitches with the memory of Q’s thigh in his palm. And his arse, _Christ_. He’d set aside the memory of everywhere _else_ they were touching, and everything he felt. But it washes over him in this moment as he watches Q dance with a freedom the _Quartermaster_ never shows. He can feel Pierre’s eyes on him.

“He is quite lovely,” Pierre comments. “Go. There will be other nights for discussing business, after all. Enjoy yourself.”

James down the rest of his champagne and places the flute on a nearby tray. “I think I will.”

The dance floor is full of writhing bodies and suggestive movements. Q seems lost in the music, in his own mind, unaware of the people around him. But they are not unaware of _him_. He has many admirers, judging from the speculative gazes around the room. And several men appear to be prepared to move in. It’s time James ensures they know he’s spoken for.

Q startles when James places a hand on his hip, but then smiles and turns to face him, even as he continues to sway. He places one hand on James’ shoulder to help them synchronize their movements, but lets the other arm swing free. He’s _physical_ in a way that James isn’t used to. Unfettered and unabashed.

He’s fucking beautiful.

“Is everything okay?” Q asks, nodding at Pierre.

...who has moved to stand near the woman, their heads together as they talk. Pierre shakes his head, motioning to the dancefloor and then the lounge seating behind them. The woman waves a young man over to join her, and the three of them retreat to the low sofas, where a number of businessmen appear to be talking.

“Everything’s perfect,” James assures him, pulling him a little closer. Q smiles again and relaxes into the dance.

The music pulses through them and energy between them feels… potent. He can almost forget they are here for a mission, now that the work is done. He notes signs around the room of drugs and couples disappearing down dark halls, but he isn’t distracted. None of that is his problem at the moment. None of it requires his attention. None of it compares to Q.

He’s not sure how long they dance, but it’s playful. They move apart so Q can move more freely, then come together again, teasingly close, nearly, but never quite touching. And damn if James isn’t enjoying every minute of it. Eventually, Q signals he’s thirsty, and they move to the balcony to get some air and water. James still has a hand on Q’s hip as they look out over the lights of Paris, catching their breath.

“You were right,” Q announces.

“I often am.”

“Don’t be an arse. I mean, this has been fun.”

James smiles and pulls Q in a bit closer, pressing his lips against Q’s temple. “You’re perfect.”

Q stiffens. He doesn’t pull away, quite, but James feels an abrupt alertness that he hasn't felt since they rejoined the party. Q’s looking out across the city skyline, but he’s not smiling.

“Q— Liam?” James whispers.

“Do you think it’s too early for me to excuse myself?” he asks.

James checks his watch. “It’s nearly midnight. Not terribly early.”

“I feel… I feel a bit of a headache coming on. And I’d like to take my contacts out.”

James studies him for a moment, seeing the sudden strain on his face. “You go on up. I’ll make the rounds and give our host our thanks... and be up shortly.”

Q looks relieved. He offers a quick, almost sheepish smile, and leaves James on the balcony, looking out over Paris.

James replays the last few minutes in his mind, trying to determine what sparked the sudden change in Q’s demeanor. He _has_ been perfect. A better field agent than James could have possibly hoped for. Shaking his head, he downs the rest of his water and goes back into the ballroom to say goodnight to Pierre.

He enters their room a half-hour later, finding it dark and slightly steamy. Q showered again and is already in bed. James follows suit, rinsing off the sweat of the night before changing into sleep pants and climbing into the bed next to Q.

Lying on his back and staring at the ceiling in the dark, he’s very aware of Q beside him. Very aware of the heat emanating from Q’s body. Of the memory of Q’s body pressed against his all evening during the party, but especially in the deserted hall behind the kitchen. Very aware of the fact that if he knew Q _less_ well, he’d be inclined to roll toward him and pull him close, feel Q’s lithe frame against his own, and see just _how well_ their bodies might fit together.

But he can’t do any of that. Not just because he works with Q, but because they’re _friends_. Because he actually cares about the man and is curious about what might have spooked him and driven him from the party early.

Because he isn’t just curious about how their _bodies_ might fit together.

And _that_ , he thinks as a clock chimes in the distance, is a problem.

He’s all for the occasional seduction during a mission to blow off steam.

Actually _fake dating_ someone he cares about… well _that,_ as it turns out, is another matter entirely.

He sighs and stares at the darkened ceiling as the lights of Paris glitter outside the window.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Remember to subscribe if you want to be notified of the next chapter... they'll be spread out since we're following an actual calendar.


End file.
